Serveandchoke - Rose

his voice in this clip hellooo!!! heyheyhey!!!🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

source: atp youtube channel

Everything has changed

Jannik Sinner x Reader

Synopsis: You're the girl next door, foreign, and out of place. But you meet the red-headed boy from the house next to yours and changes your life.

a/n: 2/3 fics :p im so soo sorry for making u guys wait, tourney has been unforgiving and it's hard balancing activities hahaaa but yeah after my tournament i got to go to madrid and see matches happen in real time so yeah.. but i kinda wished jannik was playing, i miss him. BUTTT we get to see him again in a few weeks and i cannot wait for that. alright enough oversharing hope u enjoy this fic!!!🤍🤍

It all started when you moved to Italy. You were just a kid, barely twelve, when your family decided to make the move from your home country to Jannik’s small hometown of San Candido. At the time, it felt like an impossible adjustment, a different world filled with strange customs, a new language, and people who all seemed so far ahead in their lives. But there was one constant that kept you grounded: Jannik Sinner.

He was thirteen, just a year older than you, but he made everything feel easier. He was quiet, a little reserved, yet incredibly kind. His smile was rare but always genuine, and it seemed like he always knew how to make you feel at ease, even in the most foreign of settings. He spoke in his thick Italian accent, which at first was hard for you to understand, but soon enough, you’d learned his words as if they were your own.

The two of you were inseparable. Every afternoon, after school, you'd both ride your bikes through the winding streets, exploring the beautiful town together, laughing over things that seemed silly to everyone else. It wasn’t long before you realized you had developed an undeniable bond with Jannik. The friendship blossomed naturally, and you never thought twice about it, he was just the boy you grew up with. The boy who always made you feel like you belonged.

By the time you were sixteen, something in Jannik changed. You could feel it before he even said it, before you even understood it fully. You’d noticed the subtle shifts in the way he looked at you, the way his hand would brush yours when you walked side by side, the way his smile became a little warmer every time he saw you. The small things that shouldn’t have meant anything, yet they did. But you were too caught up in your own world, high school, your family, your plans, to pay much attention to it.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking,” Jannik said one evening, the two of you sitting on a grassy hill overlooking the town. He was staring at the sunset, but you could see the tension in his jaw, his lips pressed together like he had something heavy on his mind.

“About what?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, trying to read him. You could tell something was different in the way he spoke. It wasn’t the usual carefree Jannik who would joke around and tease you.

“I’ve been thinking about tennis,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure whether he should say it or not. “About how... I might want to take it seriously, go pro. You know, travel the world and all that.”

It wasn’t a surprise. He was already exceptional at tennis, the best player in town by far. You’d always known he had potential, but the weight of it hit you when he spoke those words aloud. He had always been so grounded, so humble about his talent, and now, you could see the pressure in his eyes.

"That’s... that’s really amazing, Jannik, you should go for it. I mean, whatever you feel like what works for you, you know?" you said, trying to sound as supportive as you could. But deep down, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. The thought of him leaving, leaving everything behind, was too much to process.

His eyes flicked to you, reading your expression, shaking his head. “I’m not sure if I’m ready to leave here, though,” he said quietly, as though he were confessing something. “I don’t want to leave you.”

The way he said that made your heart race. You opened your mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you just nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. The moment stretched on, both of you sitting there in the silence, but the air was different now, charged with something unspoken. Something you didn’t know how to name, and neither did he.

But the day came, and Jannik left for the big leagues. It wasn’t a grand goodbye, just a quiet one. You clung to him, as if it was the last because this was the last you'd be having this. Having him. "I'll miss you." You'd say, swallowing the tears back. "I'll miss you even more," He'd press a kiss to your temple, and you'd pretend it meant something to him. Because it did to you, and maybe, it meant something to him too.

You watched him go, as he stepped onto the plane to begin his journey. And you stayed behind, your world still in San Candido, your heart feeling the loss more than you ever expected.

Years passed. You focused on your studies, diving into your work, pushing through medical school. You had dreams of becoming a doctor, helping athletes, but every now and then, Jannik’s face would flash in your mind. It wasn’t often, but it was enough for you to realize that part of you still held onto him, even from afar. You followed his career, of course. Everyone did. He became one of the best players in the world, and with every victory, you felt a mixture of pride and ache. He had become everything you had always known he could be. And as much as you tried to ignore it, you couldn’t deny that you missed him.

By the time you were twenty-four, you had finished your medical degree and started working as a sports doctor, focusing on athletes. The job was demanding, but it was everything you had ever wanted. And yet, no matter how busy you were, the thought of Jannik lingered at the edges of your thoughts. You had moved on, in a sense, built your life around your goals and your work. But Jannik’s absence, the loss of that connection, still weighed on you.

Then, one day, it happened.

You were working at the clinic, reviewing a new athlete’s file when you heard the familiar voice. At first, you thought you were imagining it. But when you looked up, there he was. Jannik Sinner, standing in the doorway of your office, wearing that familiar smile that sent a warm rush of nostalgia through your veins.

It took a moment for your brain to process it all. He had grown taller, his body more defined, his face sharper. But his eyes, those deep blue eyes, were still the same. They were the same eyes that had watched you grow up, the same eyes that held secrets in them when you were younger, when you were both too scared to admit what you had.

“Jannik?” You blinked, unsure if you were dreaming.

He chuckled, a low, familiar sound. “It’s really you. I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

The warmth in his voice made your heart flutter. You hadn’t realized how much you had missed it, missed him, until now. “What are you doing here?” you asked, standing up from behind your desk, suddenly feeling self-conscious in front of him.

“I’m here for a check-up,” he said with a shrug, as though it was no big deal. “You’re working as a doctor for athletes now, no?”

You nodded, trying to steady your breath. “Yeah, I’m actually the team doctor for some of the tennis players now.” You gestured to the seat across from you. “You can take a seat.”

Jannik did, sitting casually across from you, his posture relaxed as always. But even now, you noticed the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his eyes searched your face, like he was trying to figure something out. Something important.

“How’s everything?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but you couldn’t help the flutter in your chest. He was here. After all these years, he was here.

He smiled, and for a second, you swore you saw a flicker of something more than just friendship in his eyes. “It’s good. You look good, too. You’ve really grown up.”

You laughed softly, nervously. “Well, I did go to med school, so... there’s that.”

The conversation shifted easily from there, but beneath the surface, something had changed. You both had changed. Jannik, the young boy who had once been your best friend, had become a man. A man you couldn’t deny you still had feelings for. And as you talked about everything that had happened since you last saw each other, you realized something. Something that had been building for years. This wasn’t just a reunion. This was fate pulling you back together, as if it was always meant to be.

As Jannik stood to leave, he turned to you with a look that was both familiar and new. “It was good seeing you again,” he said, his smile lingering a little longer than necessary. “Maybe... we can catch up more? Off the clock?”

Your heart raced as you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. But you didn’t need to. His smile said everything.

And just like that, everything had changed.

only jannik sinner could’ve made me sit for 5 and a half hours in front of tv looking at a ball going back and forth

masterpiece

In Sync - Part 2

Jannik Sinner x Reader After getting in her head about ruining her dynamic with Jannik, reader actually does ruin her dynamic with Jannik. On court, it’s obvious… And painful to watch… and play. But maybe the damage to their energy isn’t irredeemable… and maybe it’s actually non-existent?? Warnings include... smut, spiraling, extensive description of terrible match, 13k words Catch up on part 1 here!!

---

You spotted him from the end of the hallway.

He was standing by the entrance to the practice courts, a towel around his neck, cap pulled low, arms crossed. Jannik Sinner—tall, unmistakable even from a distance. The same figure you'd played beside in near-perfect rhythm just days ago. 

He looked exactly as you remembered him—not that much time had passed at all—sharp profile, relaxed posture, that worn-in cap he never seemed to replace. But something about the air around him felt different that day. Stiffer. More measured. And you were already too in your head to decide whether it was coming from him or from you.

Your sneakers had squeaked slightly against the hallway floor as you approached. You had tried to steady your breathing, even though your heart was thudding in that annoying, traitorous way that it seemed to be doing when he was near. Your palms were a little too clammy on your water bottle. You hated that you cared this much.

He glanced up a second before you reached him. Offered a faint, polite smile. It was the first time you'd seen each other since that press conference. 

Since the hard and soft catastrophe… and the hitting it from the back one…

Since your words escaped your mouth before your brain could catch them. Since the internet caught fire. It was hard to believe that was just the other day, your mind had run a lifetime worth of circles since.

You’d rehearsed your greeting the night before in front of your mirror like an idiot. You’d played it casual. Light. Maybe something self-aware and dry about the press thing. Maybe something that made you seem confident and nonchalant enough to laugh about it.

But when your eyes met his—just for a flicker—you froze.

He nodded first. Gave a soft, neutral, "Hey."

And that was all it took to derail everything you had planned.

You mirrored it. "Hey."

Your voice came out quieter than you meant and when he bent down to adjust his laces with more focus than they required without another word, you reached for something to say. You tapped the heel of one shoe to the pavement twice before finally saying, "Good play in the quarters."

You swore in your head right after at the way your words came out sounding forced and shaky, and you trailed off with uncertainty even in the routine expression of congratulations. And—like he picked up on it, like he didn’t want to startle anything already on edge—his voice was low and careful when he responded. 

"Thank you," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might smile but decided against it and you followed the flicker before quickly looking away again. "You too. Straight sets again, right?"

You nodded once, "Yeah."

That was it—you figured curt replies would save you from digging yourself into a deeper hole. You moved towards the reserved court without checking to see if he was following after you.

You dropped your warm-up bag beside the bench, moving slower than usual, too methodical in unpacking your bag. You pulled off your hoodie, grabbed your water bottle, then carefully unzipped your racquet sleeve, avoiding looking in his direction. But you could feel his gaze flicker your way, brief and cautious, almost like he was checking to see if you would ever look over to meet his eyes.

You refused to, for your own sake, kneeling to stretch your hip flexors instead and he moved near the fence to roll out his shoulders and stretch out his calves. You weren’t quite close enough to collide, but there was nowhere you could go on court without being close enough to feel his presence in your peripheral vision. So you turned to grab your water bottle again, you did catch his eyes—only for his eyes to dart away to his towel.

Your coaches then gathered you both, laying out quick reminders about formations, serve direction, and signals. You nodded, eyes locked on your coach’s shoes, only moving to move the hair the wind whipped into your face. You thought you felt Jannik’s eyes on you when you lifted a strand caught on your lips, but, even when he spoke to reference a specific poach from your previous singles match, you still didn’t glance his way.

And when you answered some question, something about Jannik’s backhand coverage, you did so without referring to him at all. You didn’t say his name, didn’t gesture toward him, didn’t do anything that might invite eye contact or another opportunity for you or him to be put face to face with your press slip-up.

You only felt some relief when the briefing finally broke so you could go and hit some balls, and you eagerly backed out from the teams’ huddle—ready to use the drills as another means of avoidance—but the fans and onlookers that had piled behind the fences at the far end of the practice court had other ideas.

As with any court that Jannik graced, a crowd had already started to form as soon as he’d entered—spectators and credentialed pass holders gathering just to get a glimpse of his warm-up. Phones were raised, signs and balls held high. The occasional shouting and cheers had mostly become background noise, but one jeer pierced through the court and seemed to reverberate through the court.

You signaled for Jannik to take the baseline as you walked up to the net, not even looking in his direction as you did so, and someone cheered Jannik’s name louder than the rest. The yell was immediately followed with an equally loud cry teasing, "Yeah! Hit it from the back!"

You looked back just in time to see Jannik stiffen mid-serve toss, and you faltered where he stood. The line seemed to echo, and your worries of the perception of your comments washed over you once more, as if they weren’t already a constant shadow in the forefront of your mind, as you picked on his reaction.

Chris coughed into his fist to hide a laugh and Simone outright chuckled. Darren clapped Simone lightly on the back, murmuring something that only made him laugh harder. You saw Jannik looking over at them just as you were, and caught how he shook his head and glanced up at the sky. You swallowed hard, looking down at your feet. 

Kill me, you thought to yourself as you turned to face the net once more and bent your knees in ready position. It seemed you couldn’t act like you’d never said those words even if you wanted, but you didn’t know how else to confront the situation other than sticking to the tactic you’d already chosen—you’d already committed to the avoidance. 

You allowed yourself a look back at Jannik when you crouched for his practice serve and immediately regretted it when you caught his eye just briefly—darting your gaze back to the court. He looked as pink as you felt.

And even after the moment had passed and the warm-up continued, it still continued to haunt you. Witnessing the reactions that seemed to affirm all the worst-case scenarios of Jannik’s reception to your media debacle.

So when you’d feel his attention graze you, you imagined his expression to be a sneer of disgust—though you couldn’t bear to look and confirm. You traced the subtle tilt of his head in the corner of your eye when you adjusted your visor. There was the faintest shift in his footing as you lifted your shirt to dab some sweat off your lip. 

And he had to have been looking when you tucked two extra balls up into the hem of your shorts, the heat you felt must have been from his gaze flicking over you. The action was automatic for you—hooking your thumb beneath the elastic, sliding the first ball in, then the second. His eyes followed the shift of your hand, the stretch of fabric at your hip, the subtle indent it made in your skin. His gaze lingered at the spot where the fabric met the curve of your thighs, tracking the movement with a kind of focus you didn’t dare meet with your eyes though you felt the charge in a way that prickled at the base of your neck. 

The feeling of him watching forced all your usual, unconscious motions up to your attention, because they so clearly seemed to be in his.

He hates me. He can’t stand to look at me, you thought. You shook your head at yourself for what must have been the dozenth time that day. Of course you just had to go slip-up and say that… You really are too much.

You couldn’t help but be just as aware of him, lasering into all of his movements, though you could hardly say it was for the same reasons as his. 

Your eyes followed the stretch of his arm as he adjusted his sleeve, the way his fingers flexed and relaxed around the handle of his racket. When he brought his hands to his face and blew air into his palms to cool them—a gesture you’d seen him do in the countless matches of his you’d watched—you caught yourself staring. The breath left his lips in a slow, practiced stream, and for a moment, your eyes fixated on the shape of his mouth, the slight purse, then the drag of his thumb over his palm, and the flex of his fingers afterward. You couldn’t look away, caught by the intimacy of witnessing it so close, entranced by the small ritual. Your throat dried. Your eyes traced the veins on the back of his hand, the way they shifted when he flexed and relaxed.

Then you blinked, shook your head subtly, and forced yourself to look away, jaw tight, trying to breathe past whatever that was. Don’t give him more reason to be freaked out, please, you reminded yourself. God.

You were so in your head that, as you danced around the court for different warm-up strokes, the disconnect remained and heightened—bleeding into your game play. You went through all the necessary motions—rallies from the baseline, quick volleys, light serves—but nothing quite clicked. When he offered you a ball, you took it with a muttered thanks, eyes cast low, your fingers brushing his for a half-second longer than they needed to. You blinked hard and turned away before your face could betray the warmth creeping at the tip of your ears.

When your shoulders brushed passing each other at the net, neither of you said a word. But you both stiffened, and then pretended not to. It wasn’t outright cold, but it was careful. Like you were now both trying so hard not to overstep that you ended up stomping out your joint rhythm along the way.

That quick chemistry you both held just a couple days before now seemed to be snuffed out with this weight on top of it—it wasn't heavy with resentment, though it felt like it was to you, but it was heavy with caution.

And then, before you knew it, before you could even hope to resolve it—whatever it was—you were standing shoulder to shoulder with Jannik walking towards your first mixed doubles semi-finals, yet you felt entirely outside of yourself.

It should have been familiar ground by now—your third match together in the tournament. You had done this walk before not long ago at all. But this time there was a layer of static between you. Something unspoken that neither of you seemed willing to touch. The lightness that had once sat between your conversations had dissolved into the kind of silence that amplified the smallest of sounds. The way your shoe tapped faster on the floor. The way you cleared your throat and instantly regretted it.

He wasn’t saying anything. His hands stayed tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His eyes stayed forward. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye—just long enough to catch the angle of his jaw, the familiar curve of his cheekbone. But he didn’t glance down, and you should have been glad for it.

And you, despite your usual nature, didn’t try and make a joke. Didn’t break the silence. You were past trying to alleviate the stiffness you yourself had instigated that morning—and you hadn’t felt like yourself in the past day and a half anyways.

You tried to fill the space in other ways. Tried to fill the space to keep you from opening your mouth and inevitably saying the wrong thing. 

You adjusted your bracelets beneath your wristbands, fixed the bill of your visor, unzipped and re-zipped your jacket—fidgeting movements that were more about self-soothing than anything else. You shifted your grip on your water bottle at least three times, even pretended to check something on your phone before tucking it away again. Each gesture felt painfully deliberate, and shamefully pointless.

And Jannik must have noticed. You could tell—you’d learned to spot his subtle shifts in attention. Though he never turned his head, you caught it in the flicker of his eyes when you played with the hem of your sleeve. In the way his jaw twitched slightly as you adjusted your hair for a second time, even though there was nothing to fix. Again, you didn’t dare look at him full-on, but you could feel him observing—and it was even necessarily out of spite or disgust in the way you were quick to hypothesize, it didn’t even seem to be out of curiosity. He just seemed to be taking mental note of all the little ways you were unspooling beside him.

Now, standing idle beside you as the announcer rattled on, you had nothing to focus on but him and the way he held himself. He kept his expression neutral, but his posture had that quiet sort of alertness—like maybe he was trying not to react, trying not to escalate something that was so clearly fraying beside him. Like he thought that maybe if he held his body still enough, kept his quiet enough, you wouldn’t sink any deeper into whatever headspace you’d fallen into. 

But that stillness, and that silence, only made it worse. The more careful he was, the more formal his energy became, the more you read it as distance. As discomfort. As quiet confirmation that you'd said too much, too wildly, and now he was just trying to save you both from the fallout.

And every second you waited to step out onto the court made your thoughts spiral harder. He’d definitely seen the clip. So now, with him, you suddenly felt completely, absurdly exposed. Like everyone in that tunnel could see every inch of embarrassment pressed into your shoulders.

And even if he hadn’t seen it—maybe you were broadcasting enough awkwardness for the both of you. You were overcorrecting. You knew you were, you had been since before your warm-up. You were standing straighter, arms crossed like a schoolgirl trying to be taken seriously. When you did speak, your voice pitched slightly upward, tight and rehearsed.

"Good luck out there," you said, too formally, as though you weren’t about to play together.

His eyes shifted toward you, briefly. "You too."

His tone was soft. Polite and measured again. Just like the first day you'd met. And somehow, that recognition made the distance feel worse.

And it wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. No teasing lilt, no hint of the warmth you’d built just the other day underneath. Just default civility. He looked back forward immediately after, as if even he was beginning to realize that holding eye contact with you for too long might veer things into dangerous territory. Like if he acknowledged you too much, it would leave an opening to confirm something in your dynamic had regressed.

And maybe it had. It felt like it had.

But maybe that was you. Or maybe now it was him reacting to you reacting to him... You were in too deep to know where it started—a mess of mirrored restraint. 

You hated how aware you were of the space between you—how you held yourself like you were trying to be smaller. How your jaw ached slightly from how tight you were holding it. How you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, and how every tiny movement from him—whether it was the casual tug of his bag’s strap or the way he shifted his feet—felt like something you had to interpret.

When the call of your names came, you finally felt like you knew what to do with yourself, but when you stepped out together, it didn’t feel like you were arriving as a pair. As a team.

Cameras flashed. The crowd buzzed. You waved with a smile you hoped looked natural. But even as your hand lifted, it felt like it didn’t belong to you.

You still didn’t glance at Jannik, and he didn’t glance at you. You were both looking forward, performing your roles as expected of you. Pros stepping onto a court—you felt like strangers again. And, worse, you felt like it was your fault.

So the match started off jagged, and the first set dragged on.

Not because the opponents were overpowering—far from it, which was your only saving grace—but because you and Jannik were uncoordinated. Out of step. One pace behind where you should’ve been. His timing. Your footwork. His shot placement. Your reactions. All of it was just wrong.

The first few points were pure disasters. 

The first play, you called for the switch at net too late. Jannik moved behind you but didn’t have the angle, and your opponent crushed a clean winner right between you. You muttered a quick, "My bad," as you adjusted your strings.

He shook his head, tucking in some hair beneath the side of his cap. "No worries. We’ll get it."

And then, too soon after, he jumped the line early, cutting off a ball you had clearly settled in position for. It floated high and long.

He turned, lips already parted to apologize.

You gave him a tight smile. "It’s fine."

It wasn’t. Not really, not compared to how you had been playing the match before. Not compared to how you should’ve been playing, then.

The first promising rally came too deep into the set—Jannik served a deep, heavy ball to the body, and the return floated just enough to give you time. You were already moving up to cut it off when he darted left to take it with a backhand instead. Your rackets nearly collided mid-swing. The ball careened off the frame of his string bed and smacked directly into the net. You heard a loud sigh from someone in the stands. Jannik muttered something under his breath and turned away. You blinked at the baseline, your jaw clenched. At that point, neither of you acknowledged the mistake, one of many made in the little time that had passed in the match, nor did you even bother to come together for a cursory fist bump.

Worse still was after, when a short ball that hung in the center of the court after a weak return. You were at the net, ready to finish it. Jannik called for it—just a sharp, low "Mine"—but then hesitated for a fraction too long. You hesitated too, backing off. In that heartbeat of indecision, the other team closed in. The volley came down the line, and Jannik reached too late. Another lost point that should have been an easy grab.

You could hear Chris exclaim in equal parts disbelief and disappointment from your box at that one, and you looked down to shake your head at yourself. Across your side of the court, Jannik did the same.

Luckily, somehow, you’d scrape a few points together every now and then. One came off of pure chaos—a long, ugly rally where your footing slipped twice, where Jannik had to backpedal into the doubles alley to even reach the ball. You lobbed defensively, buying yourself time, and your opponents misjudged the bounce, letting it drop behind them. You barely believed it had landed in. Neither did Jannik. You tapped rackets—your knuckles brushing just barely, though your eyes never met—and said nothing.

Another miracle point came off a sliced drop shot from Jannik that accidentally clipped the net cord and dribbled over. You were even moving in the wrong direction when the ball fell dead on the other side. The crowd applauded out of what felt like pity. You exchanged a barely-there look, a tired shrug, before moving on. Neither of you had meant for it, but it had worked. And you needed the points and, at this stage it didn’t matter how you got them.

Still, you made it to the first half with a narrow clinch of the first game. There was no celebration, there wasn’t a need for one. The points you won weren’t earned—they just happened. Scraps of instinct. Dumb luck. The match wasn’t falling apart so much as it was unraveling slowly, thread by thread.

As you sat down during changeover, towel over your head, your chest tight with effort and frustration, the silence beside you was somehow louder than the stadium noise. The bench felt all too small—and not in the way that had made you feel giddy at the proximity the day before.

Jannik sat down next to you, his own towel slung around the back of his neck, the water bottle in his hand barely touched. His elbows rested on his knees, gaze fixed forward, brow furrowed like he was already replaying the disappointing course of the game that had only just ended. You both sat angled slightly away from each other—not completely, but just enough to emphasize the distance felt.

You uncapped your bottle and downed your gulps too fast. The water sloshed in your throat and nearly made you cough, but you swallowed it down. Your hands were shaking a little more than you wanted to admit. You couldn’t even be sure if it was from exertion, from the sheer frustration and shame at the way you’d just performed on court, or from the stifling air between you and Jannik.

You could feel his presence beside you take up more space than it should have. Not just heavy, now—it was loud, too. Loud in the way every movement he made still drew your attention.The way his fingers tapped once against the bottle. The way he wiped his forehead with the edge of his wristband. You still couldn’t bring yourself to really look at him, but your body seemed to note every shift he made, like a reflex you couldn’t shut off. One that had come to feel fun and enthralling in the days prior, but now you wished you could will the awareness away—a distraction was the last thing a match going as poorly as this one needed.

“I think, uh…” he started suddenly, his voice a little rough, like he hadn’t used it in too long. You turned your head halfway toward him, more reaction than curiosity. He cleared his throat and tried again, “That point in the second game? That ball that came to the middle—we both hesitated. I think one of us has to claim the center more.”

You blinked at him, the words landing sharp despite how gently he’d said them—you’d lost that point because of your lack of initiative. You knew he wasn’t wrong to point it out, but it still made your chest tighten.

“Okay,” you said, voice clipped. You reached for your towel, wiping your forearms because it gave you somewhere else to look. “I got it.”

He nodded and waited as though he expected you to add more. When you didn’t, he offered some words of encouragement. “Trust your read and go for it if you feel it.”

“Noted.” You replied, short and rough. 

You hadn’t meant for it to come out like that and he didn’t say anything more. He just gave a small nod, lips pressed together like he regretted speaking.  

Okay, really? Now you’re just being an asshole, you thought to yourself. You glanced down at your shoes, toes tapping absently against the court floor.

It was so different from before, though you tried not to think of it. That tension from the first match, the one that sparked with potential, with something unspoken but electric—that had hummed like a secret shared. But now, the tension was brittle. That charge still buzzed, but it didn’t feel like a current pulling you closer. It felt like a sort of static interference. Distracting. Disruptive.

You glanced over at him again then, briefly. Just for a second. His jaw was clenched. His grip around the bottle a little too tight. And you knew—he felt it too.

When your knees brushed as you shifted to stand, and the moment your legs made contact—barely even a graze—you both recoiled. Not dramatically, but enough. A startle. A flinch. He muttered a quick "Sorry," almost under his breath. You shook your head, fast, too fast, already moving to step onto court.

He followed a second after. You walked back to the baseline with the same pace, the same gait, but no cohesion. The crowd cheered, still hopeful despite witnessing the trainwreck that was the first game, but whatever was sitting rotten between you two wasn’t going away after just one break—you were just carrying it back onto the court with you. You didn’t have many expectations for the second half of the match, and the audience quickly started to feel the same way.

The second set was truly hard to watch—and that was putting it lightly. 

It went by faster than either of you expected, which was maybe a small mercy. If the first had been clunky, then this one was pure dissonance—ugly in a way that couldn’t be ignored or masked by luck. The rhythm—already tentative, if there at all—dissolved completely.

The points you did win over only came when one of you carried it entirely.

When you held serve once in the set, it was because you took four straight rallies on your own—serving wide, chasing every return, and finishing each point with aggression. Jannik hadn’t moved past the service line once in the whole exchange. 

He muttered, “Good one,” once, but you didn’t quite respond so the words just floated before dropping, lifeless.

He won several points over with that ace of his and a pair of forehand winners that were so textbook the crowd had to clap. You didn’t even pretend to move for those plays of his, and he didn’t look your way after sealing it. Just walked back to the baseline, head down, expression unreadable, though it wasn’t like you’d praised him like you maybe should have.

And any moment where you both had to work as a team—had to rely on timing, and joint instinct—that’s when it all fell apart. Every time you moved forward, he stayed. Every time he gestured for a poach, you were already backing off. A long rally ended with both of you standing at the baseline, neither daring to approach the net. A soft drop shot from your opponent drifted over, completely uncontested.

One of the worst came late in the set—at deuce, on your opponent's serve. The return landed awkwardly at Jannik's feet and he scooped it back with a lunging forehand that floated mid-court. You saw the opportunity and rushed in to cut it off, only to misread the spin entirely. You overran it, your racket swinging at air, and then you stumbled. Fully stumbled. Your foot caught near the edge of the service box and you tripped forward, barely catching yourself from going down. The ball, untouched, fell well inside the court. Jannik stepped toward you instinctively, maybe to help, or to check in, but you were already upright and turning away, playing it off with your back to him, pretending to fix your strings.

And later, when you were returning serve on the ad side, you had just nodded to each other—a half-hearted, barely there cue that you were staying back—and the serve kicked wide. You lunged to cover it, barely managing a looping return. The opposing net player volleyed it hard and fast right down the center. Jannik, mid-shift toward the sideline, realized too late and you were too far out. He managed to turn back, but the ball clipped his frame and rocketed towards the base of the umpire’s chair. There was a gasp from the crowd when the metal rang out from the contact. Jannik rubbed his temple once in irritation as he gestured an apology to the umpire, gave you a brief shake of his head—more to himself than at you—and reset.

There was just no read, no trust, no rhythm between you. You’d both lost it all, it was clear as day to anyone watching. To you two most of all.

It was transparent in the way he gripped his racket tighter after every misstep, in the way your frustration showed in every slammed serve or overly aggressive swing. You weren’t playing to win together—you were each trying to salvage all you could alone.

But doubles had little tolerance for such dysfunction, you could only get by for so long. So you both scraped by as best as you could. Even in all the disjointedness, you made headway winning points—still out of sheer luck or muscle memory. 

In a point of pure chaos, you misread the opponent’s return so badly that you all but chased Jannik out of his position while trying to get after the ball. Your racket managed to connect with the ball right as you crossed over where he stood, and it shot off your strings at a sharp angle, slicing behind the opponent. They scrambled, got a frame on it, and the ball popped up. Jannik volleyed it down, clean and out of reach.

You tapped rackets after that one, but it was a little delayed and though the gesture was more than what you had done throughout the match, it held little warmth. 

And on one back and forth, after a string of poorly timed backhands from you that Jannik kept scrambling to compensate for, the opponent finally dropped a lazy shot at the net. You sprinted in, completely off balance, and scooped it with a desperate flick that smacked onto the tape of the net before teetering to the other side. A stunned silence hit the court as the ball dropped limply, without much bounce, onto the opponent's side. You looked over at Jannik when the crowd cheered, mostly because it felt like you had to. He only gave you a small nod and you took it on the chin—it wasn’t exactly a point to feel proud of. 

Then came what should have been match point… It was fitting—one final, spectacular miscommunication.

Jannik served and the opponent’s return came fast and low, and you both reacted at the same time.

The ball came to the center, a tight, straight shot to the middle, and you remembered what Jannik had said on the bench. Your instincts screamed at you to get after the ball. Go. Take it. You pushed forward hard, fueled by equal parts discipline and ego, committed to trusting your own read.

You figured he would hang back, or at least hold off, so you sprinted for the shot. You darted inward from the service line just as Jannik moved in behind you from the baseline, both of you angling for the same flick—your forehand coiling at the ready as his backhand lifted high. You caught his shadow in your periphery, but you were too late, too close to pull away. The second after your racket lifted, your shoulder slammed into the solid line of his chest.

He grunted as he stumbled, arms instinctively catching around your waist to absorb your fall, but your momentum didn’t stop and you took him down with you. His back met the court with an audible thud. Your racket clattering from your fingers as you collapsed on top of him. Your forearms landing on his chest, one knee grazing his thigh before your hips settled across his. Your breath escaped in a sharp gasp, tangled with his, as your bodies landed flush together. 

And—for a breathless, suspended moment—you couldn’t do anything but stay that way.

The only thing you could feel was the thrum of his chest beneath yours, the air between you thick, close, and impossibly charged. The scent of sweat and sunblock lingered in your nose, but underneath it—him. Clean, warm, faintly sweet in a way you hadn’t been close enough to notice before. Your hips were nestled squarely over his, one of your legs still slotted between his, his body firm beneath you. You were close enough to feel the low burn radiating off his core and sink into your skin, through damp and thin layers of fabric. The sharp line of his sternum pressed just beneath your hand, his chest hard and unrelenting against your palms, rising in fast, shallow breaths.

Your gaze locked with his and held—dilated pupils, the faint hitch of his breath, the flush climbing his neck. There was this raw wonderment in his stare, and it was he’d forgotten where you were. His lips parted slightly, and his breath hit yours. The brim of your visor of his cap brushed off the top of his cap, and you could see bits of his tousled hair beneath. His eyes were wide and you could see them darting between yours. Your noses almost touched. That close.

Your hands shifted slightly against his chest, fingers digging in on instinct. Your palms flattened and you lifted your thigh up and away so both your legs were snug around his hips—intending to push off, maybe. But he was solid and warm. And it distracted you. It kept you there.

You could feel the slight tremor in his ribs under your palms, or maybe it was your own hands shaking. The muscles of his thigh twitched under your weight. His fingers at your waist flexed again, firmer this time, and you swore you felt him exhale onto your cheek. The slide of his thumb at your side, grazing just under the hem of your top. The motion subtle, but not accidental. And the feeling of it lingered.

And then there was the heat—concentrated where your hips pressed into his. An impossible awareness that made your skin tighten. Your stomach fluttered. The ache low and slow. The way his body had shifted beneath you meant you felt every inch of him—aligned, taut, restrained. His legs had spread just slightly, and you could feel the tension in the way he held himself still, like he was afraid that moving even a little might cross a line neither of you had drawn but both of you felt. 

You felt his gaze track the line of your face—quick, then careful. The ridge of your brow, the slope of your nose, the shape of your mouth. You even think one of you leaned in, though you couldn’t be sure who—or if you imagined it.

You’d spent the day deflecting any contact with him, avoiding any closeness to a fault. But you couldn’t ignore him now. Not like this. Not with your hips straddling his, your legs bracketing his body, your hands still splayed across his chest. Not with the way he looked at you like he wanted to say something. You wanted to say something. You still couldn’t trust your voice, though. Especially not now.

Because it was dizzying. You could’ve stayed like that. You almost did.

But then reality surged in. The crowd. The court. The match.

You scrambled back with a rush of mortified adrenaline, brushing at your skirt, at your sleeves, anything to avoid the fact that you’d just practically mounted him center court.

"Shit—sorry," you said, not meeting his eyes.

Jannik sat up slower. He didn’t say anything for a second, but he took your hand when you reached out with a silent offer to help him up. He let go of you as soon as he was up on his feet.

“No—" he said finally, voice quieter than before. “It’s... fine.”

"Are you okay?" You asked, still avoiding his eyes.

He looked at you then, dropping his head a bit as if he was seeking your eyes. When you continued to look past him, his brows drew just slightly together. "Yeah. You?"

You nodded once, reaching up to tighten your visor with a decisive yank. And then, before you could stop yourself, your voice came out a touch too sharp, too soft. "I thought we agreed I’d cover the center, remember?"

The words hung there between you. It wasn’t quite an accusation, but it sounded like one, and you regretted it all the same. You heard him take an even breath to reply, but the umpire’s voice cut him off.

You both looked over to gesture that you were alright, and hastily made your way back to position as the umpire called the score: deuce.

Jannik rolled out his shoulders once as he walked back to the baseline. His face was as unreadable as ever, but you heard the way he exhaled hard through his nose. You followed suit, crouching at your spot at the net, your legs and chest still buzzing from the adrenaline of the fall. 

He served again—this time with even more force. It kicked up near the opponent’s shoulder and they could only manage a stretched return that floated high back to your side. You anticipated the ball's trajectory quickly, stepping forward to angled a forehand volley just out of reach. It landed inside the line. A quick nod passed between you and Jannik as you circled back. Not exactly a fitting cheer, but the sliver of acknowledgment more than you’d allowed for most points.

Then came a tense, looping rally. You stayed back again, grinding through the long exchanges alone, striking deep cross-courts, pushing angles as far wide as they'd go. Jannik remained planted near the service line, barely moving. He didn’t offer a signal. Didn’t step in to cover. He just watched, waited, letting you handle it on your own—it seemed the damage came when one of you tried to intervene.

And you did handle it. A solo effort where your backhand shot down the line to seal the point, and you walked back with just a glance and slight lift of a hand in Jannik’s direction.

It was only when the crowd roared did you register that was the winning point.

You barely reacted at first. You just stood, blinking up at the umpire when they called the match yours and Jannik’s. Jannik was already connecting with his box, racket hanging loose in one hand as he gave a nod and a firm fist towards his team. 

You walked toward him slowly, unsure of what to say or do. When you reached him, you raised your hand and he met the gesture halfway. A muted high-five, hands pulling back apart before they brushed for even a second too long.

You turned to the net together, shaking hands with your opponents in silence. Dazed and not quite triumphant.

Because though the match was over, though you had won, the air between you felt far from settled.

And no part of the day, on court or off of it, felt deserving of any celebration.

---

After the match, you and Jannik had all but bolted in opposite directions.

The disaster of your teamwork punctuated by the stiff post-match interview—if it could even be called that. You stood beside him at the service line with the mic waving between you, answering questions in stilted, fragmented sentences while barely meeting the reporter’s eyes, let alone each other’s. Jannik kept his arms folded the whole time, nodding at the appropriate moments, saying little. You picked at the cuff of your sleeve and answered every question with the minimal amount of words possible. When it was over, he muttered something to you that felt like it was a congratulations, though it was relayed in an almost disappointed tone. He nodded to his team and the cool down area as a goodbye, and you didn’t stop him, already leaving him for your own without so much as a glance back. 

Since then, you’d barely spoken to anyone. Most of the day had passed with you in a despondent haze. You’d coasted through media obligations half-heartedly and even skipped the recovery session your physio had booked, ignoring the texts from your trainer checking in on your whereabouts. When they did track you down, you ate your dinner with them in silence, responding to questions with noncommittal shrugs and nods before they stopped asking things altogether. 

But you knew you could only get away with your huffy mood until your usual post-match meeting with your coach. It was part of your routine—post-match debriefs, no matter how the match went. And Chris was never one to hold back, but this time, the tone was sharp from the moment he entered.

The door to your suite cluster’s common living area creaked open behind you—Chris didn’t wait for your cue. 

“Okay, that was rough,” he said, folding his arms. “Technically, tactically—that was one of the sloppiest matches I’ve seen you play in months. Ever, actually. You were two steps behind in everything. No anticipation. Footwork was hesitant. Reaction time? Non-existent. And your shot selection was straight-up irrational at times.”

Your gaze dropped, nodding but entirely unmoving otherwise. You knew he was right.

“Your read on serve placement was late, your depth disappeared after the third game, and don’t even get me started on the return positioning—you were guessing, not adjusting. And I know you know better than that.”

He paced a few steps, raking a hand through his hair.

“You let your fundamentals slip because your head was somewhere else. You’ve been playing the best tennis of your career these past few weeks, and today you played like someone who didn’t even want to be on court.”

That made your eyes snap up.

“Chris—”

“You were stiff,” he continued, just slightly redundant but clearly on a roll. “Jumpy, all over the place. You kept second-guessing and waiting, and when you did move, it was late... And there was no communication—that’s what doubles is all about, kid. It looked like you’d never met each other.”

“Yeah, well,” you spoke at that, allowing a dry quip under your breath. “We did only meet a few days ago.

“Shouldn’t matter.” Chris answered, quick and decisive, shaking his head. “I mean, clearly—just looked at how well you two played the last two matches…”

“You think I don’t know that?” you said, sharper than the usual you took with him—still controlled and not quite yelling, but heated and piercing. “You think I didn’t feel every time I was late to a shot? That I didn’t realize I kept hesitating? That I didn’t realize I was delayed for nearly every point?”

You threw your hands up in exasperation, letting it out all at once now. “I tried to adjust. I tried to push through it and read the court better, but—we weren’t syncing up at all, Chris. It was like we were playing two separate games at once—how am I supposed to fix that mid-rally?”

Chris blinked at you. He was quiet for a second, registering the edge in your voice. All that you’d said, it was rational, technical. All true. But underneath it… He recognized something else cracking through. 

“Hey,” he said, his face and voice softened immediately. “I don’t mean to pile more on and stress you…

He waited a beat and, at your lack of response, added even more gently, “What’s going on? This isn’t like you, none of today was.” 

You hesitated, jaw tightening.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, voice small now. Honest. “I really don’t.”

He sat beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Look, you’ve got the semi-finals tomorrow evening—your first ever. That’s a big deal. And you’ve got the mixed doubles final right before. That’s two career milestones. Two chances you can’t afford to fumble. You’re too good to let anything—whatever it is—get in your way now.”

You said nothing. Just watched your fingers as they fiddled at the drawstrings of your shorts.

Chris sighed, and you saw him shake his head with a knowing look out of the corner of your eye. “You need to work it out with him.”

“With Jannik?” Your eyes flicked up. “Work what out?”

“Exactly. If you don’t even know, then you need to figure that out,” he said. "Just go talk to him.”

You shook your head, turning back to look towards your lap, and muttered. “He’s not the problem.”

“Then you apologize… Clear the air.” Chris set his hands on his thighs before hoisting himself up, final in his advice. “I don’t care if it’s awkward. Or weird, or personal—just do what you need to so you’re not dragging this weight behind you into tomorrow."

You swallowed hard, allowing a reluctant and slow nod.

"Because you’re too close to something great to let it fall apart like this."

He gave your shoulder one last, light squeeze and walked out, leaving you alone in the quiet hum of the hotel room.

You sat there alone for a long whole, picking at your fingernails, because what was it, exactly? What was it that had gone so wrong?

It wasn’t just the bad communication on court or the misread of plays. It wasn’t just the technical slip-ups or the awkward press conference or the stilted body language. It was maybe all of it combined—or none of it…

You didn’t know what you would even say when you did go find him. You kept circling the same questions in your head, asking why it even mattered—why you felt so affected about a dynamic fractured with someone you’d only met a handful of days ago. Why this one match, this one person, had left such a mark.

And yet, the answer was already there, in the fact that you cared at all. In the fact that it did get under your skin. Your tangle of frustration and discomfort that stayed constant ever since seeing Jannik wasn’t just from the game falling apart. It was from you. From him. The way you acted with him, and around him.

It was from your aversion to confronting what it was that laid between you too—the root of why it was you worried so much about his reaction to some stupid, accidental innuendo.

You’d always prided yourself on maintaining a level mental state, on inflating yourself and your confidence, especially when you were so naturally prone to overthinking. On and off court, you were all heat and fire. Your theatrics during play—the fist pumps, the grins, the crowd-rousing flair—it was a sort fuel that doubled as a protective wall enveloping around you. People came to expect a performance from you, always awaiting something shocking and forward from your appearances, and so you leaned into it, reveled in it. You felt more like yourself when you could be on display like that, bold and unabashed—and you couldn’t help but feel knocked down when you got in your head like this. It wasn’t like you—or it was, you just tried your best to cover it when you could.

And this—this mess between you and Jannik—was past just being in your head. It was in your game. It bled into your hands, your movements, your reactions. And you hated that, you couldn’t believe you let that happen. Couldn’t believe you’d let it stay that way.

But you hated how badly you wanted to fix it even more… It felt like a blow to your pride—that you cared as much as you did.

Still, you knew Chris was right. You couldn’t go into tomorrow like this—foggy, clamped shut, trying to muscle through it alone.

You had to talk to him.

Even if you didn’t know how the conversation would end, or where it would even start.

You pulled your phone from your bag, fingers hovering for a moment before tapping out a message to Simone, the only contact from Jannik’s team you had. You rush out a quick text asking for Jannik’s room number, and if he was around, before standing and pulling on a hoodie. You pulled on your slippers and grabbed your key card, gearing up to leave with the momentum, not allowing yourself a moment to back out.

You were already out the door, ready to aimlessly wander the halls at the very least, when Simone’s reply came—short and to the point. He confirmed Jannik was in for the night and gave you his room number, mentioning that he’d let Jannik know you were coming.

You stepped into the elevator soon after, pushing his floor level quickly before you lost the nerve. The ride up felt slow, the lift humming quietly as you leaned against the back wall, staring down at the numbers as they lit up one by one. You adjusted the sleeves of your hoodie, then pushed them back up again. You fidgeted with your hair, chewed on the the strings, caught yourself tapping your thumb against your thigh in rhythm with your breath. 

As you walked down the corridors, turning the corners, you kept getting lost in the rehearsal of your poorly strung together script. Should you start with an apology? Ask what the hell had happened? Ask if he felt it, too? Would you talk about the match, about the weight of tomorrow, or about the charge between you?

You just couldn’t start out with something stupid. Blurt out something awkward or sharp or too soft. Or start a sentence without knowing how to end it. 

You worried about his reception to your words. Maybe he’d be cold. Distant. Maybe he wouldn’t even open the door.

The hallway felt quieter than it should’ve. Carpets muffled your footsteps, and the fluorescent wall lighting made everything glow a little too warm and folding in too bright around you for the hush of the late evening. You moved slowly, passing each door with your heart knocking harder in your chest the closer you got. Every few seconds, you rechecked the text for his room number, mostly to give yourself something to ground yourself with.

You didn’t notice you were already standing in front of his door until your hand was halfway raised.

And then, before your brain could catch up—before your thoughts could interrupt again—you knocked.

The door opened faster than you expected.

Jannik stood in the doorway in a hoodie and sweatpants, barefoot, his hair slightly damp, just starting to curl at the ends. His expression was mostly neutral—neither surprised nor particularly guarded. Maybe a little tired. And even curious, you thought.

"Hi.” You blinked, not quite looking at him even with him standing right in front of you. “Um—hey. I hope Simone warned you I was coming. I mean, I assumed he did, he said—but I’m sorry if I;m disrupting you—"

You paused, already hearing yourself spiraling.

"Sorry. Okay. I just wanted to say—about the press panel? You know.. The ‘hard and soft' and the… Yeah, you know... I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Obviously. And I should’ve just said something about it right away instead of... pretending it didn’t happen and then acting like you were radioactive or something. Which I wasn’t trying to do, by the way. I was just—"

Your hands fluttered vaguely. "—avoiding you. Which you definitely noticed. So... yeah. I’m sorry."

You took a breath but didn’t stop.

"And I’m sorry for how I acted before the match. And during. I was off, and I was quiet, and I didn’t really give you much to work with—and we were supposed to be helping each other, and it’s all super new and I just made it harder. And, I don’t know, I got in my head and it felt like you were avoiding me, too? But maybe you were just—"

“Wow,” he said finally, with a soft huff of disbelief. “...You think too much.”

That shut you up. 

And, he sounded almost amused, so you looked up at him then. And it was the first time you really allowed yourself to look at him all day.

He seemed... relaxed. Calm in a way that made your frantic energy feel almost comedic. He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms loose at his sides, hoodie slightly rumpled, the curve of his mouth just barely turned up at the corners like he couldn’t quite decide whether to smile.

His eyes, clear and steady, held yours like they weren’t weighing anything at all. No frustration. No resentment. Just a kind of quiet observation.

It made you feel both stupid and seen all at once. 

You blinked once. Twice.

Then he stepped back and tilted his head toward the room. “You want to come in?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you weren’t expecting how light he was acting. You’d imagined some sort of push back, but he just casually moved aside, like your flood of words hadn’t overwhelmed him, like none of it was quite as heavy as it felt in your chest.

It made your face flush all over again. Because clearly, clearly, he hadn’t been carrying this the way you had. And that realization made your insides twist with embarrassment—like maybe you’d built a whole story around something he hadn’t thought twice about. That the disaster that was this morning could have been so easily prevented if you hadn’t gone and assumed the worst.

Still, you nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

And then you stepped inside.

---

You settled onto the far end of the couch while Jannik crossed the room and took the other side, angling towards you. It wasn’t a big couch, but the few inches of space that were between you felt intentional—a comfortable, safe distance. Safe from what, you didn’t know.

He sat back and propped his feet up, arms resting loosely on his knees, watching you with that same easy steadiness.

You exhaled slowly, anchoring yourself in his quiet. For the first time all day, you weren’t buzzing. You let his calm wrapped around you and settle into you—stilling the rounds your mind had been on all day. Somehow, just being near him settled your shoulders, slowed your thoughts.

“I, uh—okay,” you started, a little more measured this time. “What I was trying to say earlier, in between all that babbling, is just… I didn’t expect any of this to matter so much. I didn’t think a one-off mixed doubles pairing would get me off the way it has.”

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve.

“But when we played those first couple matches and actually synced up—you know, like really synced—it meant more to me than I thought it would. I guess I didn’t realize that I’d... care that much about whether we kept that rhythm or not.”

You looked up at him, and met the steady gaze he held on you before continuing. “So after the media… debacle, I thought I’d gone and messed that rhythm up and—Well, I think in thinking that I actually did, sort of stunt that dynamic of ours… And, I’m sorry.”

Your voice trailed off, unsure if that was the end. Unsure of how else to finish.

Jannik picked it up for you.

“I get it,” he said quietly. “I felt that, too.”

You glanced at him, and he gave a small shrug like it was obvious. "To be honest, I was surprised. Playing with you feels natural—Like we’d done it before."

You blinked.

“I’ve watched you for a while,” he added, with an almost sheepish laugh. “Before this tournament. Not just match highlights—l watch your full matches. You’re… hard to miss.”

His delivery of that made you laugh—a sort of quiet, self-conscious thing.

“I like your energy,” he continued. “Your fire—the showmanship. You make people feel involved when you play, I was excited to be on the same side of that.”

“And it is fun… Today, maybe not so much…” He laughed when he continued, but looked over at you as if to reassure you that he didn’t mean it with any malice, his expression soft. “And with the press? It just made me laugh. I didn’t think anything bad from it. I know you say these… Some things like this to media before, no? Funny things—bold things.”

You smiled, relief flooding you. “So you weren’t offended?”

“No? It is a bit different, for sure, but that’s kind of your thing, right?” He chucked before raising an eyebrow, amused. "Should I be offended?”

You bit your lip. A beat passed. Then, emboldened by the return of your footing, you leaned back with a grin. “I mean... I would even argue the average person should get an ego boost if someone says they hit it well from the back on live broadcast, so…”

Jannik blinked. Then his head fell forward with a laugh, high pitch at first before trailing off into a silent shake of his shoulders.

“Ah… ” he said, glancing up at you, eyes glinting. “Now you’re back.”

Something in you flushed warm—at the words, at the way he looked at you when he said them. Like he saw you. Like he liked what he saw.

And then his eyes dropped, just for a second, to your mouth. Neither of you moved right away, but you felt yourself leaning in. You heard your breath catch, though it could have been his. 

Your noses brushed—an awkward, human bump—and you closed your eyes, just hovering by his lips for a moment. That breathless stretch of stillness collapsed soon after when your mouths met. It was firm, steady. His lips were soft but sure, warm and tasting faintly of mint. Your breath hitched again. Your hand moved before thought, fingers knotting into the collar of his hoodie as the kiss shifted quickly, deepening as he angled toward you. His hand slid from your jaw to your neck, his thumb at your throat. When you tilted your head, your teeth caught the edge of his lip. You felt the small pause in his breath before his other hand came to your waist and tugged you closer.

When your knees bumped, his moved between yours without hesitation, and your thigh rose against his side as he leaned you back. You adjusted beneath him without breaking the kiss, one hand planted firmly on the outer side of his rib cage, the other now under his hoodie, knuckles grazing the ridges of his stomach. His skin was hot. Tense.

He groaned low in his throat, you swallowed it.

He followed you down, bracing a forearm beside your head. His hips settled between your legs, his body caging yours in. The air felt thick. Your fingers pressed against his side, his hoodie rucked up to his ribs, the scratch of fabric against your palm and the firmness of his stomach beneath it making your thoughts scatter.

You arched against him slightly and felt the shift in his breath—saw it in how his hand slid down your thigh. The kiss broke once—just enough for a breath—but your noses stayed close, and your lips brushed again before you both dove back in.

When you kissed him again, harder, he pressed in closer. His thigh moved deliberately between yours—the contact caught you off guard, the pressure direct and immediate through the thin layers between you. You inhaled sharply against his mouth, and he responded with a soft grunt of his own, as if the sound alone had done something to him.

His hands held your hips loosely, not quite guiding or rushing—just giving you encouragement to move against him. And you did. Slowly at first, your hips tilted forward, seeking more. He stayed there, letting you grind into him. The fabric dragged just right against the seam of your shorts, igniting that sharp, coiling heat low in your stomach. You gasped again, this time less startled and more desperate.

Jannik’s fingers tightened at your waist. His breath hitched audibly when you moved again, a fuller roll of your hips against the line of his thigh, purposeful now. Your head dropped back to the cushion, breaking the kiss when the friction pulled a soft, near-whimper from you—quiet and needy, and he felt it against him when he leaned over you to wedge his leg deeper between yours, as your mouth brushed his collarbone.

His thigh flexed under you, just slightly, when you rocked again, more insistently. He dipped his head down so his lips could find your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth again, as if he wanted to be as close as possible to the sounds you made. He kissed you slower this time, open and deep, and he hummed every time you gasped into him.

One of his hands slid lower, gripping under your thigh, holding you up as your rhythm against him escalated—as you chased the contact of him against you, your bodies rocking in tandem, clothes still on but breath already breaking at the edges. You gripped the fabric at his back and let your chin fall back before lifting up to part your mouth against the base of his neck. He smelled clean, warm. The line of his collar was soft against your cheek. Your fingers moved on their own, slipping under his t-shirt now, higher and bolder. His hands moved too—raking under the hem of your shirt, thumbs at your waist. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, your faces only inches apart, still breathing heavy. Your eyes met his. He looked flushed, pupils blown.

"All good?" he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, breathless. "Yeah, you?"

He smiled a little. "Definitely."

And then his mouth was on yours again, hungrier, your hands pushing his hoodie up over his shoulders as he helped you out of yours too. 

You nudged his nose against yours when you came up for air again, breathing hard, your voice hoarse with heat and all things warm underneath. "Bed?"

He nodded and kissed you once more—quick, solid—before standing. He offered a hand. You took it with a laugh.

He looked down in the few paces over to his bed and chuckled to himself, before gesturing at the wet mark you’d left on the thigh of his sweatpants. You let out an embarrassed, half-laughing groan and covered your face with both hands.

“Oh my god,” you muttered through your fingers. “That’s so…”

But he just grinned and grabbed your wrists, gently pulling your hands off your face. He stole a kiss just as you reached the mattress, stumbling backward onto it with you catching yourself over him.

“I don’t mind.” He said, teasing, and he looked too happy about it so you scoffed. You gave him a mock-glare and shook your head, cheeks warm, and your hands came down to snap the elastic of his waistband.

You rolled your eyes when his grin widened at your silent demand, but he lifted his hips just slightly to help as you tugged his sweatpants down. He let out another chuckle at your expression, quiet and genuine, low in his chest as you crawled over him again.

The rest of your clothes came off in pieces, haphazard and breathless. His fingers slipped under your own waistband as he eased you out of your shorts. There was this shared urgency, but also patience in the way your hands explored each other. He only paused when you pulled your hands back to reach up and put your hair up. Beneath you, he gazed up, letting out a little, shaky exhale as he followed the motion. A hand of his floated up almost unconsciously, tracings over your hairline and tucking some forgotten strands of hair behind your ear. You stilled for a second at the tender, watchful gesture, before shifting to fully settle above him.

You were straddling him now, your palms flat on his bare chest, fingers spread, dragging slowly over the curve of ribs. You could feel how stiff he was beneath you—tension humming under every inch of his skin. His hands didn’t go to hold your waist immediately. They started by skimming your thighs, then traced up the curve of your hips, settling just beneath the hem of your top.

He sighed a little when you lifted it off for him—his thumbs brushing over your lower belly, fingertips dragging up your sides and over the swell of your chest. He was watching for your every reaction as he felt all around you, attentive in a way that made your breath stutter.

When he found the places that made your breath catch—just above the creases of your hips, the side of your neck, the dip between your collarbones. Each touch pulled a different sound from you: a sharp gasp when his thumbs dragged beneath the curve of your breasts, a broken inhale when his mouth brushed that one sensitive spot just below your ear. Your body answered each one without hesitation—hips shifting, chest arching into his hands, breath falling apart in small, uneven bursts.

You squirmed when his fingers ghosted your lower back, a soft whine escaping you before you could help it. He chuckled—low and pleased—one hand settling with possessive weight on the small of your back, keeping you flush against him. He rocked into you a little and the steady drag of your core against the firmness beneath you made your thighs tense and your breath stutter, and your eyes fluttered closed at the slow-building heat curling low in your stomach. Your reaction earned a low, satisfied sound from him, and the heat pooled deeper.

Only after you shivered and shifted above him did your own hand move lower, beyond the dip of his stomach. You felt him tense in anticipation.

Your lips met again, kissing deeper now as your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, curling lightly around him. He jerked slightly into your touch, his breath breaking hard against your mouth. You stroked him slowly, and the way his hands gripped your hips in response—tight and needy—made your stomach twist.

He tried to keep kissing you through it, but his rhythm briefly faltered. His jaw clenched. His breath stuttered out into a shaky groan, and his fingers dug harder into your skin.

"Wait—" he murmured suddenly, voice strained, his head dropping against the mattress. "Wait, I’m—fuck, you have to stop."

You stilled immediately, a question of what was wrong on the tip of your tongue until he shook his head with a breathless laugh.

"Too close," he muttered. "I’m too close."

You blinked down at him, lips twitching up, flushed and a little wide-eyed as he composed himself again. He took a deep breath, sitting up on his elbows to kiss your jaw—then your shoulder.

"My turn," he said, voice lower now. He flipped you gently beneath him before you could react, his mouth already tracing a line down your collarbone, his hand sliding down between your thighs with practiced intent.

You gasped when he skimmed over you, one hand fisting the sheets by your hip. He didn’t rush. His fingers teased around the insides of your thighs—grazing closer and closer before making full contact, before your hips rolled into his hand, a soft sound leaving your throat that made him groan in return.

"There," you said, voice husky and barely audible. "Right there."

His fingers stayed gentle at first—circling, coaxing, teasing that spot over and over until your thighs were trembling and your every breath was just an uneven gasp. He watched your face, the way your eyes fluttered, how your lips parted with each inhale. Every subtle shift in your body drew a new adjustment in his hand, his mouth finding your skin again and again—shoulder, collarbone, the base of your throat.

Your hips started chasing him. Every time he paused, you whined softly, breathless and desperate, and he only smiled faintly against your skin when you murmured something incomprehensible into the air that he felt more than he heard. Your hand found his wrist, squeezing, not to stop him—but to keep yourself tethered. And only then did he slide a finger inside, slow and purposeful, and your body arched toward him, a sharper sound slipping from your lips.

He pressed in closer, curling right and deep. His wrist angled again, hitting that soft spongy roof, watching you unfold under the pressure of it. His breath fanned your jaw as he listened to your every sound—low, sharp, broken—and let it guide him.

You felt the build cresting, that coil winding so tight you could barely breathe. Your back lifted from the bed, and his free hand pressed lightly to your stomach, grounding you.

“Jannik—”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know. I’ve got you.”

And he did—always steady and sure.

He continued to work you exactly how you liked—fingers sliding in this perfect rhythm that made your legs shake. He alternated pressure with precision, slipping from deep and slow to quicker, shallower pulses—before grounding you again with a deliberate, dragging curl that sent heat spiking through your limbs. Each shift in tempo he used to pull you back from the edge just to push you closer again.

He moved between a hard and soft touch with perfect timing—one moment coaxing, the next commanding—always reading you. Reading every shift of your hips, every broken inhale. Adjusting each time to get you closer, before taking it away again.

When your breath hitched especially sharp, he murmured something again—low, near your ear—and doubled down right there. The tension in your body built tight under his touch, but he didn’t quite let you get you over the edge. He held you right there, on that precipice, until your body couldn’t decide whether to plead for release or more of the same.

And still, his hand didn’t falter. Like he was content to keep you there, to watch you in a constant state of unraveling, to hold that rhythm he’d learned from you.

And, as you writhed in it, you decided you needed even more.

Your hand slipped up to his forearm, fingers pressing lightly. “I want you,” you breathed, throat tight. “All of you.”

That pulled something from him—a guttural sound from deep in his chest. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and searching, and for a moment he just stared down at you, panting as if he wasn’t the one leaving you breathless.

Then he leaned in, kissed you soft, quick. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

He sat back just enough to shove his boxers down, breath stuttering as your hand helped him. You watched each other through it—eyes locked, the air heavy and electric between you. When he leaned back over you, his weight came down gently, his mouth brushing yours again as his hand guided himself to you.

And when he sank into you, slow and full, your breath left you completely.

He slowed for a second, forearm braced by your head, his face buried in your neck. You felt him breathe you in, felt a shudder roll through him, before he started to move—deep and steady and close.

You adjusted beneath him instinctively, legs winding tighter around his waist as your hands gripped at his back—first for balance, then for grounding. Every inch of him filled you, each thrust controlled and patient, perfectly paced.

His forehead dropped to yours for a moment, his breath syncing with yours. You moved in that rhythm you discovered together, for each other.

He groaned when your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, pushing him even closer and deeper. His hand came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he kissed you through another slow roll of his hips. You clung to his shoulders, fingers flexing with every drag and retreat. Each thrust built on the last—you tilted your hips to meet him in the middle, finding fuller angles together.

His mouth never strayed far—brushing yours, your jaw, your throat. And you were anything but quiet. Every gasp, every broken cry of his name pushed him further, his grip tightening at your hip.

“You feel—” he muttered, cutting off with a harsh breath. “You feel so good.”

You could barely respond, too caught in the press and pull of his body, but your hands said enough—sliding down his back, urging him closer still, like you didn’t want even air between you.

Moving in perfect sync, the tension was rising fast now—the rhythm only beginning to falter with the pressure building in both of you. You could feel it coming on too quickly. The heat curling tight and sharp, everything bracing inside you.

You pushed at his chest and he paused immediately, startled.

He blinked down at you for a moment, trying to gauge if you were okay. You didn’t say anything at first, just shifted underneath him, still breathless and flushed. Then you rolled up with a coy smile, pushing up onto your elbows first as he sat back before turning onto your hands and knees. You took your time with you—Letting your back arch slowly, a feline stretch. Your hips tilted high, swaying side to side one, then twice. 

Jannik stilled behind you.

He was breathing hard, and staring. Stunned. 

You glanced over your shoulder, a flicker of something wicked in your smile, your hair that had come undone now fell to one side. You caught his gaze with a growing grin that was equal parts challenge and invitation. A grin that said, yes, you’re lucky, and you better keep up.

“Jesus,” he muttered, running a hand down his face while sucking in a breath, like he had to physically gather himself.

“Let’s see just how well you hit it from the back,” you quipped, voice low but steady, with a ghost of a laugh underneath, the line landing with that characteristic glint in your eye.

“God," he said low, voice equal parts amused and in awe. "There you are."

And something in you clenched at that, the way he said it—it felt like being seen, and wanted, all at once. You arched a little deeper for him, letting your hips shift back just enough that your body grazed his. That contact—bare and teasing—made him move fast, snapping him out of his stupor.

His hands found your hips, firm but careful, thumbs dragging along the curves of your waist as he positioned himself behind you. When he pushed back in, it was with a quiet groan, even deeper now, the angle hitting you just right.

You gasped, your elbows dropping slightly as the force of it rippled through your spine. He steadied you with a palm at your lower back, other hand gripping your hip tighter, using it for leverage as he began to move.

That rhythm returned quickly—sharp and clean. You met him stroke for stroke, the wet sounds between you barely drowned out by your breathing and the low, broken things he muttered under his breath.

"Fuck, you’re—" he bit down on the words, cut off by the sheer depth of the next thrust. You cried out softly, head bowing, your hands scrambling for more of the sheets.

You kept rolling your hips into him, meeting each push with just as much force. He slid a hand down, fingers finding that sensitive spot again and working you in time with his movements. The pleasure was starting to pulse in full waves now, your body shaking more and more. You knew he could feel it—how tightly you clench around him, how your body was starting to meet him with a sort of fervency.

He kept moving into you with equal vigor, kept giving, hands tightening at your hips as his pace sharpened. And you took it, breath hitching every time he bottomed out, your moans dissolving into the pillow as your fingers twisted hard into the sheets. His fingers flexed, steadying you, his thumb dragging lightly along the curve of your back between strokes—an unspoken encouragement, a reverent kind of worship.

The rhythm was almost relentless, now. And it was so right.

The perfect depth. The perfect sync.

And you couldn’t hold back the sounds that poured from you—not with the way he filled and stretched you.

He leaned in, his chest hovering over your back, the heat of his skin brushing yours. His mouth found the back of your neck, your shoulder, your spine, trailing heat with every panting kiss. 

"You’re unreal," he murmured, voice ragged and low. "You’re—fuck, you’re everything."

You could really feel it then—how close he was, how close you were. His hand moved between your thighs again, his fingers finding you without pause, stippling his touch as his hips drove into you harder. You dropped your face completely, moaning into the pillow, your whole body tensing as the wave of sensation built fast now.

“Come on,” he whispered, voice barely audible over your breaths. “Give it to me.”

And then everything crested. Your body tightened, shook, clenched around him as the pleasure ripped through you—intense, shuddering, unstoppable. You cried out, the sound fragmented and raw, and he groaned at the feeling, his thrusts faltering.

He followed soon after, gasping your name, hips driving deep one last time before he let go with a quiet, whimpering sound against your shoulder, his hand clutching at your waist.

And for a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved.

Jannik leaned forward, his chest lowering over your back, his forehead resting against the curve of your shoulder. His breath was hot and heavy on your skin, his heart pounding against your spine. He stayed like that for a beat, just breathing you in, his palm smoothing up your side in a slow, grounding stroke.

Then, gently, he eased out of you with a soft groan—more from overstimulation than anything else—and carefully shifted to your side. His hand lingered on your hip as he laid down next to you, close but not crowding, eyes still fixed on you with a dazed kind of reverence.

You stayed on your stomach for a moment, catching your breath, your cheek turned to face him. When your eyes met, neither of you spoke right away. You just looked at each other, flushed and still coming down, the quiet between you full and content and easy.

You broke it first, playfully nudging his thigh with yours, voice still hoarse but teasing. “So… Safe to say, I can confirm the double-meaning from that press panel now…”

He blinked before letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh, catching your wrist and brushing a kiss over your knuckles. “You’re unbelievable,” he said, but his voice was low and fond.

You laughed, reaching out to trace a slow finger along his arm. “Seriously though—that was…”

Your voice trailed off softly and he cupped a hand over the one you had brushing against him. He nodded, meeting his gaze. “... Yeah.”

There wasn’t much more to say. Not right then.

So you just let yourselves rest there. Tangled in the residual sweat and laughter, and in each other.

You shifted closer, legs brushing. He lifted the sheet with a lazy hand to pull it over you both. His arm slid beneath your neck, drawing you in until your head tucked beneath his chin. And you just layed there, letting your fingers ghost lazy patterns across his chest, while his thumb moved up and down against your hip.

You felt him press a kiss to the top of your head. You smiled into his collarbone.

Neither of you moved to let go and the hush of the room wrapped around, your breath still slowly syncing in the weight of each other’s presence. With your leg hitched over his thigh and his arm warm around your waist, the comfort of it eventually tipped you both over the edge of consciousness. You dozed like that for a while—not into full sleep, but into a soft, half-dream state, where the rhythm of his breathing against your temple had you drifting off.

At some point, an indefinite amount of time later, you stirred. His grip reflexively tightened for a second before easing again. You shifted slightly and pressed a kiss to his chest.

Jannik hummed sleepily, and you smiled at his resting face, but the reality of the late hour was on your mind—with all that the next day held for you. You push yourself up, swinging your legs off the bed.

Jannik murmured something, his fingers reaching out to brush at your hip. "What’s wrong?"

“Nothing.” You looked down at him, reluctant but practical, offering a small smile despite his eyes still being mostly closed. “But I should go.”

He blinked, slowly coming more awake, propping himself on one elbow. “You’re not staying?”

You shook your head, standing to gather your clothes. “Our match is before noon tomorrow, and my semifinal isn't much after that. If I don’t come home tonight—if Chris realizes I never came back after he sent me to go make nice with you—I’ll never live it down.”

He watched you for a moment, still tousled and warm in the sheets. “You won’t go cold on me again?”

You paused at that, glancing back at him. His smile was teasing, but the contents of the question felt too real to answer with just a light quip. So you crossed back to the bed, leaning down to kiss him once—slow and sure.

“I promise.” When you pulled back, you grinned and shot him a wink. “... I promise I’ll be just as good on court as I was in bed.”

“Oh, god.” He let out a laugh, throwing an arm over his face like he couldn’t take it. “I’m not sure I can handle that.”

You chuckled, tugging your hoodie back over your head as you reached the door, leaving him with one more of your lines. “Don’t sell yourself short, Jannik. You did just fine tonight.”

And his laugh followed you into the hallway.

---

Guess Jannik is so chill that he can calm a crazy down. 'A crazy' being reader…

Also literally had such a hard time trying to make the mention of the schedule of the singles matches and the mixed doubles ones realistic. Tournament planners are cracked, like how do they do it?? I could barely manage writing the hypothetical in passing... the passage of time is hard.

Speaking of, there's going to have to be a part three, because the smut took up so much of the writing that I barely progressed the plot... in fact, I might've lost it... lol… Like, somehow this is 13k words and even longer than part 1... hello??

It’ll be out tmr for sure, and it's just comprised of a happy ending/beginning to this Jannik-reader duo. I'm already mostly done with it! xx

im fucking obliterating myself into pieces bye

the fits are fucking ass

im eating this up ugh i love how u write im inloveeeee with it. this is probably my favorite one

In Sync - Part 3

Jannik Sinner x Reader This doubles duo has their moment of redemption. Reader, no longer feeling the need to prove herself to Jannik, is free to prove herself on court. And she does—twice over, actually. And Jannik is her biggest fan, tbh. Part 1, Part 2

}}}

The morning of the mixed doubles final began with a newfound sense of clarity. The sky outside the tournament facilities was cloudless and bright and, despite your very first semi-finals looming even after the doubles finals, everything felt light and possible again. 

Relishing your airy and blissed mood—a stark contrast from the day before—your easy smile grew into a wide grin the second you spotted Jannik at the practice courts for your scheduled warmup, his hood up, stretching with lazy movements.

He looked up at the sound of your footsteps and cracked a slow smile, one that made chest constrict a bit. You’d last seen him too long ago—slipping out of his room early sometime that same day, just a little past midnight—but you felt something in you ease when you saw that his face was just as bright in seeing you as it was then. Ease in knowing that he didn’t deem last night as a momentary lapse in judgement, in knowing that all he’d said still held true. 

“You look like you rolled out of bed five minutes ago,” you said, tossing your bag to the bench and reaching up to place a light hand over the crown of his head to rustle his hair with his hood. 

“I did,” he replied, unapologetic, but chuckling as he nudged your hand off of him. “I’m always sleeping to the last possible minute.”

You rolled your eyes in response with a slight smile playing at your lips as you moved to turn back to your bag, but he gently held you in place with the hand he still had on your wrist. He stepped closer and, in a hushed voice, added, “But I think I have good reason to sleep in after last night…”

You swatted his shoulder immediately, looking over both of yours to make sure no one heard, but you couldn’t help the grin growing on your face.

“Alright. Don’t start.” You muttered, flushing and shaking your head to yourself as you yanked your hand from his already light grasp. He just chuckled under his breath at your reaction, bouncing a ball off his racket and stepping onto the court.

Chris and Darren stood just outside the court fence, Chris nursing a coffee, Darren flipping through notes. Behind them, Simone stood further back on talking with both yours and Jannik’s trainers and physios. And all of them paused to just watch the way you and Jannik moved with each other—laughing, teasing, shoulders bumping during dynamic stretches.

They looked on in silence for a bit, amused and in shock at the stark contrast from how you both were just the day before. Sure, you two had got on well initially, but that dynamic had done an obvious 180 for the semi-finals. Yet now, it seemed there had been yet another full flip overnight and the energy between you very clearly read as something even closer than before.

A knowing look passed amongst all of them. Darren, Simone, and the rest of Jannik’s team chuckled with each other, turning away from you both to fully do so, and Chris shook his head with a smirk towards your physio and trainer.

“How’d you pull that off?” Darren nudged Chris, leaning in to ask, tone half-impressed, half-mocking.

“Just told her she had to talk to him,” Chris shrugged, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sort it out.”

“Well, it’s definitely sorted.” Darren chuckled down at his feet.

“And—yeah, I’ll say it—it seems like they did more than just talk.” Your trainer called out from behind.

Both teams flat out laughed at that, but schooled their expressions when you and Jannik approached. Whatever happened between you two last night—it wasn’t their business, and it worked. And none of them were about to mess that up.

The coaches briefed you both together, with you standing shoulder to shoulder with Jannik—as a unit, as a team. You hugged your racket to your chest, and your shoulder brushed against his arm. He seemed to lean into the contact, not moving to step away when you touched. You bit back a smile and just vaguely nodded at the directions Chris relayed your way.

The warmup went on without a hitch. Clean and fluid. No hiccups, no awkward pauses.

It began with your usual sequence—groundstrokes first, trading balls down the middle before easing into crosscourts. And, even early on into the prep, you could already tell you were working together seamlessly. In sync once more.

By the time you switched from start-up drills, your coordination was seamless. He anticipated your angles, and you read his pace. The small adjustments you’d given each other showed up right away—his net coverage tighter, your backhand heavier. You both moved around each other like there was no friction at all—like there never was.

After a long rally practicing strokes back and forth on opposite sides of the net, you motioned for him to meet you in the middle at the net. At this point, so close to the match, both your teams trusted you as players to work on whatever it was that you felt was needed. The last 15 minutes both your coaches had just been standing on the sidelines without any sort of intervention—there wasn’t any reason to today, you were both clearly in the right headspace and hitting well. Playing well, together.

So, you proposed the next phase of the warm-up to Jannik yourself.

"Wanna try drop shots? I’ve got a few tips I can teach you," you said, twirling your racket as you approached the net.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning onto the tape. "You’d give away your secrets to me?"

"Not all of them—don’t get too excited—just enough to help us get the win."

You demonstrated a few sequences, showing him how you shifted your weight on your left foot, holding the racket at a concealed angle, disguising the shot until the very last second. He nodded, studying your grip, your stance, before practicing a few dozen drop-shots himself. You stood beside him as Simone fed him balls to hit, giving him hushed pointers and adjustments every now and then. He picked it up pretty quickly, which was to be expected, but his delight was clear after he executed a handful of floaty volleys in a row—all of them clearly marked with your personal, signature style.

“Not bad, Sinner.” He turned to you beaming, and you placed a hand on his shoulder with a grin of your own. “Not bad at all.”

You both moved to the baseline to hit crosscourt forehands side by side after that, concluding the warm-up’s net work, walking back with lingering smiles. Chris stepped in diagonally across the net to hit balls for you as Simone did the same for Jannik, but after a few reps Jannik signalled for both of them to pause. 

“I show you something?” He asked, already walking over to you.

You nodded to him and so he stepped close, his hands landing at your waist to guide you back to a semi-open stance—not rough, but fingers firmer than necessary. His hands then dropped ever so slightly to hold your hips, and his thumbs brushed a little too slow at the top of your skirt’s waistband. 

“Try to get more power from here, like this,” he said, his voice lower now, the warmth of his body unmistakable against your side. He shifted your hips for you to come square to the net before pulling them back again to repeat the motion. “You’re already there and doing it, but just snap faster. Feel that”

Your brain was just a little delayed in filtering his words, focusing on his touch more than anything—you followed what he was saying well enough, but the contact had sent a spark skimming straight up your spine. And when he spoke, the press of his chest just barely grazed your shoulder. It was too much and not enough all at once.

“Feel that?” He asked. You finally turned your neck to nod towards him and saw, though his voice sounded neutral and matter-of-fact enough, he was smirking at you.

You weren’t about to let him have it, so you blinked away your dazed state and nodded sensibly. “All in the hips, got it.”

His grasp lifted just the slightest bit so you could practice the pivot motion without his guidance, though his palms still hovered over your hips, radiating a heat onto your waist that seemed to travel down between your thighs. He was close enough that you could feel his nod of approval.

“Just like that.” He said and you swallowed, but at the same time, you had to roll your eyes. He knew. 

He knew what he was doing—not that it wasn’t working… 

You glanced up and saw your teams weren’t looking in your direction at all, they were huddled around Chris’s phone watching something intently, maybe avoiding you both on purpose. So you decided it was safe for you to leave Jannik flustered now, and tilted just enough so that you grazed up against him. You heard his breath stall a little and smiled, arching back ever so slightly to apply just a little more pressure for a moment, teasing, before straightening to come up out of the open stance entirely.

“Just like that.” You said as you turned to face him, smiling innocently, his hands still on you. “Thanks Jannik.”

He smiled, but his voice came out dry. “Of course.”

You raised a goading brow at him, still smiling, and he shook his head at you as if to say well played. He lingered there for a beat longer before retreating back with a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, just as the coaches stepped on court to feed balls once more.

“Your coaching methods may be questionable,” you called after him, smirking. “But it is good advice, I’ll admit."

His head stayed facing forward as the balls started coming towards you both again, but you heard him laugh as he shuffled to hit a forehand. “I try.”

Your grin mirrored his and, as you struck the incoming balls, you did actually try to implement the tip Jannik had so generously offered. You felt the momentum of the snap carry over to the strength of your ball-strike, applying the technique more and more effectively with each shot.

And then Chris hit over the last ball in the basket beside him. You stepped in, pivoted fast, and struck.

It cracked off your strings, sharp and clean. A textbook winner that seemed to span the length of the court in the speed of light, easily the fasted topspin you’d ever managed on a forehand

Chris whistled, loud and delighted from across the court. “That’s the one!” he called out. “Perfect!”

You barely had time to grin before Jannik’s voice came from beside you, praising and smug at the same time.

"That was great," he said, simple and sincere, his tone only slightly lilting with self-satisfaction as his hands ghosted around your hips again for the briefest of moments. “See? All in the hips.”

“Thanks for the lesson.” You shot him a look as you walked towards the bench, small smile gracing your lips both at the power you were able to generate and the way Jannik seemed to be matching your usual cheekiness.

He followed you off court so you could both wrap up the warm-up, stretching out and hydrating while listening to a few last technical notes from your teams. The sun had climbed higher, the buzz and the energy around the facility sharpening as the tail end of the tournament approached.

It wasn’t long before the time came, before you were called onto court for the mixed finals. Rackets bagged, extra grips tucked away. The coaches dispersed toward the stadium, and you and Jannik met up again at the tunnel after your individual pre-match prep in the gym—side by side again, you stood quieter now with less banter than during the warm-up, with the required focus of the match starting so soon, but the silence between you this time was comfortable and relaxed.

The final was set in the larger of the secondary stadiums, a much bigger arena compared to where you’d played the earlier mixed rounds on. The crowd was already buzzing, seats filled to the brim despite being before noon, an off time for the less popular category—fans were showing out for their favorite players, and their newest, favorite duo.

Jannik being the number one and playing as well as he did, as well as he always did, made it so the spectators started off in high spirits and large numbers. You were newer to the scene, but already a fan favorite with your trademark theatrics—so though your persona may have been polarizing, those who loved you loved you.

But the two of you together, that had become the show in itself. 

Your last few rounds playing together had amassed quite the chatter, seeing you mixed doubles matches had been nothing short of spectacular so far—even the disastrous semi-final was a spectacular failure that barely managed to end in a win.

So the noise of the crowd surrounded you, drowning out even your own, loud pre-match thoughts as you stood beside Jannik at the opening of the tunnel. But then his shoulder brushed yours and you looked up to find his eyes were already on you, gaze as calm as ever. It was like none of it touched him. The stable hum of his presence radiated off of him and washed over you, settling in your chest—steadying the thrum of your heart and deafening the spiral in your head.

“Ready?” he asked, his face was passive but his eyes and voice were warm.

You gave him a slow grin, nodding. “Let’s find out.”

And then your names were announced.

The cheers immeadiately peaked—sharp, layered, and overwhelming. And it wasn’t just a hum of excitement like other matches, but a full-force roar. Whistles, clapping, the deep swell of crowd energy moving in waves. The kind of volume that hit your chest before your ears, that buzzed through your sneakers into the bones of your legs. Flags waved in the stands. Cameras flashed. Your name and Jannik’s echoed in pockets of cheers as you stepped into the light.

You were ready for it though—taking it in, not in fear, but in scope. This wasn’t just another match. Wasn’t just some show. This was the finals. 

The word redemption flashed across your mind. Redemption for the last match, for your performance and for your poor sportsmanship. Today you were to play with Jannik. As a team.

The introductions, the photos, it all passed by you. Unconscious, routine motions as you readied your headspace. The coin landed in your favor, and you just nodded at Jannik—you were both on the same page. 

Your grip on your racket tightened by instinct as you walked to your place on the court, a flicker of healthy, familiar pressure curling in your stomach. Jannik placed a hand on your shoulder as he passed, gentle and brief, a silent message. We’ve got this.

Your breath evened out, all else in view but the court seemed to blur in your periphery and the sounds of the stadium seemed to dull as the ball was bounced for service. 

Then the match started. 

And that rhythm? Between you and Jannik? It was back. And it showed instantly.

---

From the first point, the crowd energy pressed in from all sides—constant, crackling, alive. Each bounce of the ball sounded sharper against the sea of low murmurs and rising anticipation. You could feel every collective breath held, every gasp when a rally extended longer than expected. When a point ended, the cheers surged so loud it felt palpable.

You and Jannik moved through each game like a sort of tide—a natural push and pull. Your first rally alone had the audience teetering forward in their seats. His serve snapped through the air, and you exploded forward at the first read of the return. You called your switches with sharp, clear commands. He responded with instinct. When he stepped in for a volley, you already knew which angle to cover. When you rushed the net, he anchored behind you, ready to absorb the return. Your communication crisp, your synergy undeniable.

The rhythm persisted—muscle memory and instinct compounding with chemistry and skill. His serve set up your poach, your drop shot teased out their desperation, his lob chased them back. Point after point.

And the crowd was loving every moment, and they were sure to let you both know.

Every now and then you’d tune in to their sound and it made your chest buzz, adrenaline rushing so fast you heard it in your ears. Then you’d look to Jannik, amidst whatever celebration you were doing that had the crowd shouting, and he’d smile—and that seemed to fuel you more than anything. 

You were playing as a pair again. A unit. Your teamwork unfolded in sharp, stunning detail.

And this time, it wasn’t just some pleasant surprise. You’d worked for it—lost it, then fought to repair what you could, ending up with a connection better than you could have ever hoped for. Maybe promise to be deeper than you would have ever thought.

When you’d come together to quickly discuss strategy and position—leaning close, words concealed behind your hands—you didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered. The way his eyes flickered back and forth from one of your eyes to the other, taking in your expression, your concentration. The way they’d drop to your lips, for the briefest of moments, when you’d smile before breaking to jog back to position. And you were watching him carefully enough to know that he’d walk back wearing a smile that looked a lot like yours felt.

Those smiles carried over as you both walked over to the bench after dominating and winning over the first set. Towels draped around your necks, you knocked your knees with his as you took a long sip from your water bottle, still breathless, heart pounding. Jannik leaned back beside you, tipping water onto the back of his neck with a small exhale, facing towards you.

"Let’s keep playing this way, okay? For the second set?" He asked, nodding towards you. “Just need to keep it up.”

“Yeah, agreed—we’ve got that.” You grinned, wiping your face with the edge of your towel before turning his way to offer the slightest wink. "You’ve been looking good out there, by the way."

“Thank you,” Jannik only shook his head, turning his face forward and away from you though a small smile was beginning to grace his lips once more. “You've been playing great, too.”

“Thanks—” You said sincerely, before laughing to yourself at his infallible manners. “And same to you, but… your game play wasn’t what I was referring to…” 

“... I know.” He ran a hand over his face and huffed a quiet chuckle, one that quickly grew to join in with your ongoing laughter. "No, I know."

“Wow. You’ve really been media trained that well, haven't you?” You placed a hand on his shoulder, pouting with exaggerated severity. “It’s okay, Jannik. This bench is a safe space.”

Jannik rolled his eyes, but made no move to push off your hand and he was still smiling. “You’re wasting our two minutes—we should be discussing strategy.”

“Wasting is a strong word.” You cocked your head. “In fact, I would even say I’m enhancing our two minutes.”

He gave you a pointed look, though there was still that affectionate glint behind his eyes, and you shrugged with a smile—silently agreeing to discuss more pertinent things, giving in easily after having had your fun.

“Okay, next set—you take the baseline, I’ll take the net?” Jannik took advantage of your concession, jumping into game tactics immediately, stretching his arm out to rest on the bench behind you.

“Yeah, that can be our default position.” You matched his rationale easily, already on the same page. “But if anything compromises that arrangement, just go for what feels right. Does that sound okay, or is it too loose of a plan?”

“No, that’s good. We’re doing good reading each other already.” Jannik moved to stand, grabbing a new racket and nodding at the chair umpire as they called time. “If for some reason you can’t go for the ball, I’ll come for you.”

You split into a grin at his last few words, pausing your motions of lacing up your shoes for a moment. “You’ll what for me?” 

Jannik furrowed his brow, looking over at you in confusion as he repeated himself. “I’ll come for you?”

You flash him with yet another wink, leaning just slightly towards him as you reached for your racket. “Yeah you will.”

You shrugged and gave him one more flash of your smile, before jogging onto court, and Jannik groaned as he registered where your amusement was coming from, shaking his head with a smile for what seemed like the dozenth time within the short break itself. 

He followed you onto court, stopping by you to bump your outstretched fist. As you split ways, you to the baseline and him to the net, he heard you call out one more thing before the umpire spoke. “Don’t worry, Jannik. You know I’ll come for you, too.”

And he knew how you must have been grinning without needing to look back, and you could somehow see his smile even as he crouched for your serve—catching that unmistakable, charmed shake of his head from behind. You were beginning to love the reactions he gave you, the reactions you could get out of him.

“Love all.” The umpire called out and, feeling warm and encouraged, you tucked the thoughts of Jannik away to the back of your mind, trusting that the harmony you’d been playing with so far would kick in as the set began. 

So you bounced the ball—once, then three more times—and started the second set with a blistering ace.

You gave the crowd a little wave as they roared in astonishment, catching Jannik’s approving glance back in your periphery as you moved on to the next serve without much fanfare—aiming to capitalize on the momentum the ace gave you.

That first serve seemed to set the tone for the rest of the match, because you two played even sharper than the first half. Every shift in position, every decision to poach or drop back or switch—it all landed, you made virtually no mistakes. The few errors that were made, either you or Jannik gracefully compensated for the other in an instant. And both of you were showcasing skills like never before. New ones, too.

Midway through the set, Jannik executed a perfect drop shot—one you recognized instantly as a direct lift from the lesson you’d walked him through that morning. The disguise was flawless, the touch feather-light, and it spun just out of reach of your opponents.

But it didn’t come easy. 

The point leading up to it was a war of attrition—twenty-plus shots deep, both pairs scrambling, countering, resetting. You’d retrieved a deep overhead with a lunging slice that barely made it over the net. He kept you in it with a stabbing half-volley that stunned even the crowd into silence. And just when it seemed like the rally would never break, Jannik saw an opening. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, disguised his grip perfectly, angling his wrist to execute the softest, most devastating drop shot you’d seen from him yet.

The ball bounced once, then died. Before either of the opponents could even run for it.

Gasps erupted across the stadium, followed immediately by deafening applause.

You turned toward him, already laughing in disbelief. He wore a stunned look of pride, half-shrugging like he couldn’t believe it either. You met him at the center with both hands raised. He lifted his own hands to clap against your palms, clasping his racket-free hand with yours after, leaning into you with a grin.

“Incredible shot, Jannik. Incredible.” 

“What can I say…” he started, flushed and a little breathless, “I had a good teacher.”

“You’re too humble.” You nudged him with your shoulder, after remembering to untangle your hand from his. “As much as I’d like to take full credit, that was all you… Okay, maybe eighty percent you.”

He huffed out a small, pleased laugh, and gave one last shake of his head before turning back toward the net. “Eighty percent?”

“Fine, sixty percent.” And, as he laughed again, still walking off, you reached out and tapped his butt with your racket when he passed you.

It was brief, done out of reflex and adrenaline—affectionate, playful, almost thoughtless—but the crowd didn’t miss it. When they whooped louder at the contact, delighted, you stilled a little, feeling sobered by their reaction. Too far?

You glanced back at Jannik, trying to read him—only to catch that the action only had him smiling wider, hand brushing over his mouth as he laughed, shoulders shaking with amusement.

And when he looked back at you, his smile was wide and real.

Your relief rushed in even quicker than the initial doubt did, easing into something softer when you caught yourself smiling back—bright and uncensored. You didn’t have to shrink or temper yourself—not for him, not on court, not anywhere. Jannik liked you as you were, and so could his fans. It wasn’t worth your worry, you reminded yourself as you readied yourself for one of the final few games of the match. 

It was the other side’s service game, you focused in as they bounced the ball before their serve. You leaned low between your knees, shifted to the side in a semi-open stance. Then the opponent tossed the ball for their serve—flat, fast, and stinging off their strings. With such power that it should have made you back up. Maybe before, you would have given space and played safe. But, here, you didn’t.

Instead, you stepped forward.

Everything slowed in your head. You could hear your own breath. Hear Chris’s voice echoing from earlier tournaments about absorbing pace. Hear Jannik’s voice from just that morning, his hands guiding your hips. You’re already there and doing it, he’d said, just snap faster.

You exhaled.

The ball shot towards you, but before the bounce could even peak, your body reacted. You rotated through your hips, stayed low, let the racket swing with the momentum.

The crack was immediate—startling. The ball launched off your strings like a cannon, low and blazing across the net. A return so fast, it seemed to render the opponents motionless. They barely twitched before it landed and bounced again, untouched.

The entire stadium took a second of silence before erupting in audible shock. 

You stayed frozen in your return stance, arm still extended, eyes wide. You hadn't even expected to strike the ball that hard, that well. But it just came to you. The pivot, the contact, the follow-through. It was a textbook forehand, exactly what Jannik had taught you that morning—your form near-exact to the correction he'd made hours ago.

When you looked toward him, he was already staring at you in awe, grinning wide, hands on his hips. You smiled back, before looking to your box to see your entire team on their feet, clapping.

You had to yell. “Come on!” 

“Yes!” Chris shouted, his full upper-body leaning off the barrier. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

You pointed your racket at him in celebration, giving him a dramatic salute, before throwing your arms up in exaggerated triumph. 

Impossibly, the crowd cheered even louder. You spun slowly to engage with the entirety of stands, one hand to your ear and the other beckoning the crowd, as you made your way towards Jannik. 

He was still watching you.

Not just looking, but watching. With a kind of heavy gaze that was quiet and wide and still. Like he was taking a full snapshot of you in that exact moment—vibrant, ferocious, alive—and imprinting it somewhere deep and permanent in his mind.

When you finally approached, he took your hand to shake it with almost laughable solemnity.

“I think that return was faster than the serve.” He said, voice earnest, no trace of any teasing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“All thanks to your demonstration earlier.” You laughed, stepping closer, enjoying the hushed moment with him even amidst the continuous applause. “All in the hips, right?”

“Right.” His eyes practically twinkled down at you when he chuckled. “Just like that.”

You laughed, pointing a finger at him, because now it was your turn to shake your head. He grinned as you bumped fists one more time. “Let’s finish with this power, yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s do it.” He nodded, before backing up towards the net once more. “Come on.”

“Forza.”

Every point seemed to build off the last, threading tighter and more assured. At 4–3, Jannik stretched into a full lunge to dig up a sharp angle volley. He was too far forward to cover the return, but you read the ball as it left the racket and sprinted across court just in time to send back the shot with a strong forehand. The shot landed just out of your opponent’s reach with a thud near the sideline.

You didn’t celebrate immediately—and Jannik just turned back and grinned at you, panting. “Thanks for the help—nice shot.”

You laughed, the sound quiet but bright. “You know I’ve got you.”

At 5–3, you took your time bouncing the ball before your serve, eyes flicking to his position in front you. He flashing fingers behind his back, and you called out an easy yeah just for him to hear—confirming his non-verbal plan. You served flat and fast, drawing the opponent’s return straight into his forehand zone. He met it mid-air with a well-placed swing volley, the ball just zipping past the net player’s shoulder.

The crowd exploded.

You jogged toward him, already smiling, and he met you halfway—his hand warm on the small of your back, murmuring praise and strategy back and forth.

“Okay, time to close this,” he said into your ear as you wrapped up your plan for the final game.

The last few points really spoke to your partnership, your team work. You both gave it your all, playing with instinct, aggression, and trust. You anticipated the angles before they unfolded, trusting his coverage behind you, and he trusted your reads at the net. You faked a poach to bait a lob, and he was already backing up to intercept it. You lunged and flicked your wrist for a short angled volley, and he followed it in to cover the middle.

At deuce, you both moved on the same breath. Your opponent fired a fast return down the middle, and both of you split your coverage—he cut left, you shifted right. The moment they made the next play, you shouted "yours" and Jannik pounced, slamming the ball into open space.

You turned with wide eyes and let out a sharp cheer, reaching your hand back without even looking. His palm met yours, and the sound of the strike cracked across the court. A current passed between you, though that was constant throughout the game. Thoughts understood with just a moment of eye contact, with every breath. It was almost like playing with a single mind split between two bodies. 

And the crowd continued to feel it. They rose with you, point after point, enthralled by the synchronicity.

At 30–15 in the final game, you two orchestrated one of your cleanest points yet. It started with a deliberately heavy return from you, high and spinning deep into the backhand corner. Jannik stepped in at the net, faking a dropshot that pulled the opposing net player out of position. The ball came back low, but you sliced it down the middle. Jannik rotated instantly, switching court sides with you like a sort of dance—graceful and precise. He got the short ball, angled it wide, and when the opponent’s desperate lob went sky high, you were already sprinting back to meet it.

Without needing to call for it, he peeled off to the opposite side, predicting your movement. He got out of the way just as you launched into a full-body overhead smash that rocketed down the line. The crowd lost it. Jannik turned, breathless and beaming, and held up both hands before waving them down as though he was bowing to you.

“Oh please,” You chuckled, knocking into him to block the motion. “I only got that thanks to your gift of a setup.”

He just shook his head and bumped your shoulder. “And you say I’m too humble.”

“We’re both saints, then,” you grinned, rolling your eyes but flushing with pride all the same.

Then at 40–15—match point—the crowd fell into that electric hush, the absence of noise somehow made the pulse thrum in your ears that much louder. Jannik served. You slid toward center. The return was aggressive, but you were already moving, already sensing where it would land.

Together, you closed it.

He sliced the angle of his wrist for a clean volley. You covered the opponent’s quick reply at the net, right beside him. He slid behind to cover you in the meantime, and dipped to drive a final backhand up the line—clean, perfect, final.

It was yours. The mixed doubles title. The two of you had done it.

​​But you and Jannik didn’t erupt right away. The final point so clean, the win so expected, that it almost didn’t make sense to celebrate with any sort of leaping or yelling—you turned to him, and he was already looking back. You smiled, tired and genuine, and just exchanged a slow, mutual exhale followed by a quiet nod.

"That’ll do," you said, voice light and warm, knocking your shoulder with his as you came together to walk towards the net.

He gave a quiet chuckle, nudging you back. "We make a good team."

You shook hands with your opponents, then the umpire, both interactions steady and respectful. Then, as you split off to your respective halves of the court, you looked to Jannik again—returning to court to receive the ongoing applause from the crowd.

Jannik waved up at his box, then his fans, before meeting your eyes with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I’m serious," he said quietly, leaning in. "We make a good team."

You laughed, your fingers curling into the soft, slightly damp sleeve of his shirt to pull him in. The hug was short, but firm. And entirely gratifying. Your arms looped loosely around his shoulders, his palm pressing to the center of your back. 

“I know, and I agree.” You said as you pulled away.

And then you both drifted from each other, engaging with different sides of the spectators. You raised your racket toward the spectators, clapping slowly onto the strings with your free hand, and Jannik did the same, the two of you phasing through the different angles of the onlookers. They responded in waves, cheers swelling, people rising from their seats. 

Your eyes met, across the court this time, and you each raised your racket once more, this time to each other. A moment just for each other, personal and genuine—a quiet kind of triumph that seemed to celebrate more than just your win on court.

---

The crowd was still roaring when the organizers ushered you and Jannik toward the podium hastily placed onto court. The gilded cup and plate gleamed beneath the midday sun atop it, and the press camera circled around, their shutters clicking in constant rhythm. You stepped up beside him, leaving your racket on the bench, the residual adrenaline of the match amplifying your every sensation.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with Jannik while the tournament organizer began their speech—thanking the sponsors, the arena, the fans. You tilted your head towards the speaker—actively listening, or trying to, at least. You nodded at the right times, smiled when prompted. But your awareness was split clean down the middle—he was standing so close.

Jannik’s elbow was brushing yours, you could feel how even the fresh jacket he changed into clung to his still-damp skin. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the flex of his hand as he curled his fingers of one hand into the clasp of his other. 

It was only when your opponents stepped forward to accept their trophy that you broke out of your state to applaud warmly for them. The organizer’s introduction was long over and you, having zoned out of most of it, now listened in for the runner-up speech. They both took turns speaking into the mic, and their voices rang proud despite being a little labored from exertion. They took their loss in stride, and spoke of it with humor.

"We really thought we’d have a better shot," one of them said with a playful shrug, glancing over at you and Jannik. "After watching their round before this and seeing the, uh… the discordance between these two, we figured there’d be a lot of openings for us to work with."

Chuckles rumbled through the stands, almost drowning out the tail-end of the player’s words and only settling down when the other teammate leaned toward the mic.

"Yeah, we thought we’d be able to fight back a little better. Especially after seeing you both literally collide with each other," she said, emphasizing the word with a joking look and the stands laughed along with her, "Today, we expected to take advantage of a little… confusion."

The crowd cracked up again. You felt your face warm as you chuckled along good-naturedly, hearing Jannik’s own, quiet laugh rumble beside you. The other player nodded, sending a smile towards you and Jannik before speaking.

"I don’t know what changed overnight,” The player said, entirely innocently, but you smirked and ducked your head slightly because your thoughts were anything but casual at the mention. “But you played completely in sync—which maybe surprised us, yes—but you both earned this win. Congratulations."

Polite applause followed and, as you clapped, you exchanged a look with Jannik, catching the slight crease at the corner of his mouth, the subtle twist of amusement written in his eyes. You then stepped forward to shake hands with the opposing team once more with a gracious smile and Jannik, who knew the pair better than you did, even hugged them both.

And then it was your turn, you came forward to receive the winner’s trophy together—your hands brushing Jannik's briefly at the base, fingers curling inward as the cameras flashed. You nodded at him to speak first, but he gestured for you to go ahead so you smiled at him and stepped up.

"It’s true. We, uh... we definitely didn’t make it easy on ourselves. You all saw as much yesterday," you began, drawing laughter already. "I mean, at least now I can say—" you glanced back at Jannik with a smirk, "—I can say I was on top of the World Number One, so… Sure, it wasn't in the most graceful way, but how many players can say that?"

The stadium howled and Jannik let out a small, bashful laugh beside you, shaking his head.

"So yeah, there were some slip-ups along the way—on the court, and with the press, too, yeah… But today," you continued, smile growing at the chuckles around you, "I’m proud of how we came out of that. We played some good tennis out there, and we played that way together. And, of course, a lot of that is thanks to our teams—Our coaches set this up to begin with, and I’d say I’m very happy with how it turned out." You nudged Jannik with your elbow, and he stepped up to the mic.

He cleared his throat, blinking down at you and then up at the crowd. "I think... we learned a lot from each other this week," he said, voice steady. "About skill and technical things, yes. She made me better at the net. I think I helped her a bit at the baseline… But also we learned a lot about rhythm… and about trust. We might have looked a little bit—a little bit rough, for sure, but it’s really been nothing but progress."

He looked back at you, taking a moment to smile when you nodded at him before continuing. “We have come to read each other, we get into good positions together. Always switching, knowing when to give control and take control. Even if your close, as a partner, it’s important to be able to pull out at the right moment—”

You had begun giggling behind the palm of your hand soon into his words, unable to help it. If he heard you, he’d ignored it and furthered on anyway, but now a wave of laughter from the crowd cut him off. By the time he looked over to you, smiling but lost, your shoulders were shaking with laughter.

He hummed in confusion towards you, but his voice still projected into the mic. "I’m not saying good things? They’re true, no?"

The laughter of the audience escalated at that. Your hand could only move your hand up to clutch your bridge of your now, and you shook your head amidst your amusement. When you finally dropped your hand to reveal your expression, face flushed but grinning uncontrollably, he narrowed his eyes. He knew that look.

You could see him replay his own words, and you saw right when it clicked.

His neck flushed red, the warmth creeping up to his face . He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck before apologizing into the mic, words sheepish but bubbling with mirth. "I—Sorry, guys." 

“I guess maybe my antics are contagious.” You quipped, quickly poking forward to say into the mic before stepping back again.

The crowd roared, and you laughed harder, doubling slightly when Jannik joined in again. He took a breath, rubbing a hand down his face, you heard a muffled o dio slip past his lips to himself as he tried to compose himself once more before trying to recover the speech.

“Thank you to the great fans and to my team, and the organizers. And our opponents for making such a good match.” He paused for a beat, glancing sideways at you, and his voice softened just slightly and the look he gave you  was so sincere that your lingering smile faltered a bit . "Also, I have to say, I feel lucky to play with one of the fiercest players of today—always playing so sharp and unpredictable. All fire. And, of course, I’m wishing her all the best later today in her semifinal."

You blinked, brows furrowing with emotion as you looked up at him. You had no words, moved by his genuine, public expression of praise and support, though the applause of the crowd would have drowned out whatever you had to say anyways. Instead you mouthed thank you towards him as he stepped back in line with you, and he just nodded with a small, knowing smile.

The cameras flashed around you as you both hoisted the trophy above your heads, smiling at eachother beneath it. The ceremony transitioned fully into the necessary photo-op then, the organizers herded you first into formation with the runners-up holding their sterling plate. The tournament staff flocked around you, the poses all practiced and easy, though your lips twitched a little wider every time you and Jannik leaned in to murmur something under your breaths.

You nudged his side lightly with your elbow as you stood shoulder to shoulder once the others dispersed and the photographers pulled you two aside for duo photos. Now you were both kneeling on the court, the cup set on the floor by the tournament's logo between you. "Good positions? Switching and taking control?... Pull out at the right moment? It's like you were following a erotic script, honestly.” 

“No dai… Che figura," He groaned to himself, before sneaking a glance at you. “So much for media training… and it took me so long to realize.”

“It’s okay,” you laughed, patting him with your hand that already rested on his back for the photos. “It’s only right we both have a foot-in-our-mouth moment.”

“Smile please, smile.” A photographer called out, no doubt needing to pause their burst of photos for Jannik’s regretful and pained expression.

“Sorry,” Jannik replied back to them, before continuing his conversation with you from behind his smile. “I didn’t mean it like that, obviously—it’s like everyone has their head in the wrong place. Hanno tutti la mente sporca…”

You couldn’t quite catch the last bit that he muttered in Italian to himself—they all have dirty minds, he’d said—but grinned all the same. “That’s what I said. Now you know how I feel.”

The photographers gestured for you to stand to your feet again, and Jannik shot you a look as he bent down to grab the trophy for you two. “You’re the worst one.”

“Hey—” You retorted and narrowed your eyes at him in jest, knowing that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

He stayed facing forward, but you could see his smile grow wider with amusement at the feeling of your stare. Your own lips pursed with an incoming laugh, but you had to peel your eyes back to the lenses at another prompt from the photographers for you to look forward and smile.

In front of you, one of them signalled to you both, rattling off quick instructions in his native language—no doubt suggesting another pose. You both stared at him, a little puzzled but trying to understand, before he waved a hand and switched to accented English. “Kiss, kiss.”

The photographer gestured between you two, as if to punctuate the request. Your eyes flicked to Jannik, not quite processing the context, and a smile teased at your lips when he met your eyes with equal bewilderment. “Uh…”

"The trophy—He wants you both to kiss the trophy!"

You both let out matching, breathy noises of understanding and everyone laughed at the deer-in-headlights moment. 

“Ah, yes. Okay.” Jannik smiled at his feet before shifting the trophy to be in between you, at your eye level.”

You nodded, chuckling a little before you both leaned forward and kissed opposite sides of the cup—flashbulbs went off in quick bursts, and then someone voiced that you’d done enough of that pose. When Jannik lowered the cup again, you both shook your heads at each other, sharing secret smiles once more.

Then your teams surrounded you, given the green light to join for a few shots. Chris clapped Jannik on the back with an exaggerated nod. "Beautiful dropshots," he said, eyes shining. "That one in the first set looked real familiar."

Jannik chuckled. "I just learned from the best."

Beside him, Darren and Simone both congratulated you with open arms.

"Your returns were ridiculous," Darren said. "I’m having a hard time believing you ever needed help on your baseline strokes."

Simone nodded. "I want to frame a still of that forehand."

You just laughed, a little overwhelmed by all the praise, but basking in it nonetheless. Everyone gathered in tight around the trophy for one wide shot—arms around shoulders, heads ducked into the same plane.

Through the smiling, Darren leaned slightly toward Chris and murmured, "Chris, we might have just orchestrated the best pairing to ever happen to tennis."

Chris chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "You’re not wrong."

Soon after, the photographers got all the shots they needed, and the organizers waved the court clear of most other personnel, leaving just the two of you behind. You and Jannik made your way toward the edge of the court, where the crowd had already begun to gather. Fans leaned over the rails, programs and giant tennis balls and visors outstretched in hopes of a signature.

You signed as many as you could, moving down the line beside Jannik, who nodded repeatedly in thanks, his autograph just as tidy and efficient in between posing for the occasional selfie. The two of you chatted quietly between fans, and with them—taking joint photos, exchanging light conversation as you signed.

But then your team caught your eye near the tunnel, Chris motioning subtly at his watch. You gave him a small nod before turning back to the remaining fans still holding things out, your smile apologetic.

"I’m so sorry," you told them, reaching out to sign one last cap. "I’ve got my semifinal soon—I have to go and prepare, but thank you all so much. Seriously."

There were good-natured groans, but mostly more cheers. You turned toward Jannik then, and your grin softened.

"Congrats again," you said, stepping in for another hug. It was brief and chaste, but the crowd collectively cooed at the gesture.

You laughed quietly into his shoulder, pulling out of the hug but stayed close, murmuring to him with a pointed look. "We’ll talk later?"

“Yes, of course.” He nodded, steady. “But don’t worry—you just focus on your match."

You smiled at him one more time—more than a little reassured by how easily he answered—before turning to jog to your team. He called out good luck after you, and gave him another wave, the cheers rising again as you disappeared out of the tunnel.

---

It was only a few hours later when you stepped back onto the court again—this time for your singles semifinal. Your first one ever. In fact, it had been a fair amount of tournaments since you’d even made it to quarter final rounds. There was something about this one that had you laying out all you had on court, it seemed.

You should’ve been tired. You anticipated crashing from the earlier high of winning, expecting the adrenaline from the finals with Jannik to wear out. But instead, it cooled off and transitioned into a productive calm and confidence.

So, as you stood at the baseline, ball in hand, scanning the crowd now gathering for the match, all you felt was ready.

More than that, even—for the first time, you felt complete.

This tournament had seen you every year of your pro career so far, and this time around had held some of your most thrilling wins laced with some of most hair-pulling errors. But something about the past week had undeniably changed the way you moved throughout the space. You felt sharper—more assured. Not just in your instincts, but in your presence. You'd been tested under a different kind of pressure, and instead of cracking—though you came very close—you'd expanded. Absorbed the impact, and learned.

Just as Chris had predicted, doubles had forced you into improving. It had done what endless drills or game planning couldn’t. You could feel it in the way you’d been made to adapt mid-match. React, without needing to overthink. To believe in your shots as they were happening, before they happened. 

That had come from playing alongside someone with rhythm and vision, someone who’s skills worked in tandem to your own. 

And now, standing across from one of the top seeds in the tournament—a player few expected you to take a single set from—you were hungry for more than just damage control.

You were here to win.

The first serve came hard. Your return came harder.

And then the match unfolded like a test of controlled chaos. From the start, your opponent tried to dictate pace with ruthless efficiency—striking hard, flat shots that skimmed the net and pinned you to the corners. But you absorbed them, letting your legs do the work, your core holding you steady as you stayed grounded, tethered to your intent.

At 2-2 in the first set, a thirty-shot rally unfurled like a merciless battle. You danced laterally, catching her inside-out forehands with crosscourt retrievals, then took over with a low-slice backhand that skipped just above her knees. She tried to fake you out with a surprise drop shot, but you’d already predicted it and you were there before she even moved forward. This return wasn’t particularly fast or hard—it didn’t have to be-–it was angled so tight that it kissed the very corner of the lines.

The crowd was up at their feet for that one. You gave them a twirl and tapped your tacket against your thigh, grinning wide, soaking in the energy before focusing back on the match.

Later, you drew her in with a deep looping forehand to her backhand, then lobbed her with feathery precision. She got there, barely, and you waited just long enough before wrong-footing her with a fake backhand and flicking a forehand the opposite way.

Your dropshots—already the most infamous ones on the tour—were working more in your favor than ever. Early in the set, you baited her wide with a backhand drive and then feathered one just over the net, so fine it rolled and died before she could even finish her sprint. You heard a gasp from the crowd before they even knew to applaud.

And now, you don't have to rely on light touches alone. You knew you could count on your other shots, too.

The very next point, you stepped in early on the return and rocketed a fast topspin off your forehand, inside-out, deep into the corner. The crowd thundered and you mimed a curtsy, before standing with a wink and a nod toward your team’s box. Chris shouted with approval, and you pumped your fist in his direction as you walked back to the baseline. Even your opponent paused longer than usual before resetting, as if stunned by the variation.

You continued to celebrate boldly. Pumping your fist. Yelling and twirling. Every time you hit something especially outrageous, you allowed yourself to let out a roar—and the crowd would join in with you.

The first set went to a tie break. Your chest heaved with every serve, sweat running down your back, but your head stayed in it despite the exhaustion. You countered three straight set points before finally clinching the set with a slicing forehand. Everyone watching was on the edge of their seats. You’d come far, sure, within this tournament itself—it was plain for everyone to see. The way you’d played with Jannik in the morning had proved you’d be able to hold your own with the top seed, but now you were winning.

There was no telling how long you could keep the lead, though. And the next set would be the most telling.

The second set was demanding, both you and your opponent weary from such a physical first one. She started hitting flatter, taking the ball earlier, pushing up into the court to steal time from you. You had to counter with everything—your footwork tightening, your court sense stretching to cover angles that seemed impossibly narrow. She served with venom, hitting her spots with expert precision. It was at this point that most players succumbed to her skill. But, somehow, you withstood it. 

You withstood it, and then some.

At 2-3, you played a deuce game that lasted nearly ten minutes. You saved four breakpoints. One with a drop shot that hugged the net, another with a backhand half-volley that skidded just over the line. On the final point, you chased down a short ball and flicked a forehand past her down the line, letting out a loud yell as the stadium erupted.

You scrambled for impossible lobs, chased lines, cracked flat returns with shoulder-loaded precision. And then the set was even, and you were matching the top seed at 4-4. 

She attacked your second serve with a blistering backhand return, stepping in to take time away. But you reacted instantly, blocking it back low and wide, then following it in—closing the net before she could reset. She tried to dip a passing shot around you, but you leaned left and knifed a sharp volley into the open court.

The crowd exploded.

“Come on!” You yelled, not holding back. You held a fist up toward your team before dropping your head back toward the sky. When you walked to your towel, you were still wearing a grin, a little breathless from the thrill.

You were still fighting back, and still winning.

At 5-5, she held two break points. You erased one with an ace out wide—your fastest serve of the match—then turned to the crowd with a dramatic bow, drawing laughter and cheers. Then came the next point, a return that caught the line by centimeters. She challenged and the crowd held its breath, so did you. The replay showed the ball just clipping the edge. You stood still, hand on your hip, heartbeat in your throat.

The call stood and the point was yours. You looked toward your box and pumped your fist.

She hadn’t come this close to losing all year, and you weren’t even in the top 20 yet—your opponent was rattled, and it showed. 

So you worked her corner to corner—match point was made up of a stunning rally made up of over twenty-four shots, most of them baseline drives that demanded precision on a knife’s edge. She tried to end it with a short-angle forehand. You sprinted, slid, got your racket just under it—and flicked the ball right by her. She lurched to return it, overextending as she slide, her back turned to the net. The ball came back your way, but it landed well out of the line…

And that was it. You’d won.

You fell back slightly on your heels, arms raised, chest heaving. But even as the crowd roared and your team jumped to their feet, you stood still, staring right by the baseline where the ball had just bounced out. Your breath caught—chest still heaving, limbs still braced for another point. For a second, you didn’t move. It didn’t feel real.

When it started to click, you let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a laugh. Your eyes flew wide, and you dropped your racquet, hands to your head as your mouth fell open. You staggered a step backward, overcome. And then, as the weight of the moment crashed over you, you spun once in a dramatic circle, threw both arms in the air and let out an exhilarated yell that echoed into the stands.

You’d done it.

You’d won, and it felt like the culmination of everything you'd been pushing toward. And, with all the improvements you’d made, it really felt like you earned it.

You earned your very first final.

---

The hours that followed your singles win passed in a blur of congratulatory handshakes, rapid-fire interviews, and many, tight hugs from everyone on your team. You moved from the court to cool-down, to press, answering the same questions with the same answers with a wide smile because, for once, you didn’t mind the repetition. You were in your first final. 

You hadn’t gotten tired of hearing that yet, of repeating it to yourself. You weren’t sure if you ever could.

Chris clapped you on the back every chance he got, often pulling you into his chest soon after. Your physio joked that you were banned from doing anything other than stretching and eating, and your trainer even agreed. You soaked in every comment, every cheer. It was the kind of dizzying joy that made your chest feel buoyant and your steps just a little lighter, like the ground had softened beneath your feet. Even as your body registered the exhaustion, the wear from two separate matches, your mind replayed the semi in vivid detail—the angles you'd carved, the points you’d clawed back, the crowd’s roar cresting with every bold shot. You tucked away all the missed opportunities in the match, forever remembering the errors more easily than the winners—you knew you and Chris would discuss areas for improvement at length soon. You knew to still be focused and grounded, yes. You wanted to start visualizing points for the final already, but decided that, for now, you should allow yourself to soak in the bliss of the achievement.

You carried that weightlessness through every moment after, floating on adrenaline and the unmistakable hum of pride. Because, above it all, more than any impressive shot you made, you felt uplifted with how you conducted yourself on court. You didn’t bother dulling your edges or softening your presence, and instead you doubled down on it—leaned into your instincts, your style, your voice. You felt like you won not in spite of your identity, but because of it. And, for that, you felt stronger. Fuller. The ache in your legs didn’t bother you—not when your head and heart were still spinning.

Your team was buzzing, too, matching your high. They’d planned a low-key dinner for you—and it was nothing heavy or fancy. Just enough to cap the big day and let you sleep early. You were laughing with them as you finally made it back to the hotel, still carrying your bag, having gone straight to eat after finishing up your obligations at the tournament facility.

And that’s when you saw Jannik again.

It seemed him and his team were leaving for dinner right as you and yours arrived back. Jannik was just outside the elevator bank, talking with Darren and Simone—smiling as soon he spotted you.

"There she is," Darren said first, clapping once. "Queen of comebacks."

"Incredible match," Simone added. "Great tennis."

You thanked them both, still flushing despite having heard the same sentiment dozens of times over already. They continued to share praise around you, relaying compliments to your team, and you listened idly—nodding and smiling along, your eyes flickering over to Jannik often. 

And his gaze never left you—face steady, intent. Darren and Simone clocked it instantly, and your team had noted your weighted silence from the get go; they all exchanged knowing. Chris, standing just behind you, smirked faintly and gave a barely-there shake of his head, like these two. Your physio turned just in time to catch your eyes returning to Jannik and bit back a grin.

Your team offered their own brief words of appreciation with Jannik’s, coming together with them and hanging back—giving the two of you space with a mutual, unspoken understanding. Darren and Simone shared a smug glance with Chris as you both noticeably took the opportunity to split from the group.  Quietly, the two teams peeled away even further, chatting amongst themselves and throwing the occasional not-so-subtle glance in your way, not that either of you noticed.

He walked you to the elevator, or you both sort of drifted in that direction, not rushing to get out any words. He just looked at you with that quiet clarity of his for a moment, and then smiled before saying, "Congrats. That game was just crazy.”

“Thank you, Jannik.” 

“That forehand in the tiebreak? And all the times the ball landed just a little bit in the line? I mean…” Jannik gestured the small margin by which your balls were in with his fingers, sucking in air through his teeth like wow. “And, the dropshots, of course—beautiful as always."

You blinked before chuckling, a little startled by the specificity. "Wow. You really watched, huh?"

“Of course.” He shrugged casually, like it was a given. "From start to end, of course."

“I—thank you." You ducked your head, flattered. "Really. That means a lot.”

Jannik smiled, shrugging once more, and there was a beat of silence. Not awkward, but full.

The elevator dinged behind you.

You glanced at the opening doors, then back to him, lifting your eyes. He waited quietly, sensing you had something to say and giving you time to get it out. "...I know you’ve got your semis tomorrow—and I’ve got the final still—but... I would really like to talk at some point… Because..."

You trailed off but his gaze held yours, only moving to hold the now-closing elevator open, patient as ever.

You shrugged, your lips curling ever so slightly, rushing the next bit out as fast as you could. "Well, because I think we’d work just as well off court as we do on it."

You held your hands up in mock-surrender. There, I said it, clear and light in your expression. A smile broke across his face—one that read like he knew what was coming, but that he was delighted all the same. He nodded once. "I agree."

You beamed at his words. “... Okay.”

"Okay…" he said, chuckling at how fast you brightened, leaning in just slightly before straightening when he saw your team approaching. "We’ll talk—but, for now, go rest. And good luck for the final."

"Yeah, I’ll see you." You said, biting down the full extent of your smile as you stepped away and into the elevator. “Good luck to you for tomorrow.”

He nodded again, bidding goodnight to you and your team as they filled the lift around you. When the doors closed, you were still giddy—unable to help your wide grin.

Chris threw an arm around your shoulders, nodding at your expression with an exaggerated squint. "You want to tell the rest of us what that was about?" he asked, already laughing with the rest of the team. "You look like you were about to float straight through the ceiling."

You shrugged, but your smile only deepened. “Can’t a girl exchange a few words with her doubles partner.”

“Oh, is that the cover we’re going with?” He chuckled, shaking his head and pushing you slightly. "Don’t ever forget I’m who got you the number one, okay?" 

You groaned, but your eyes sparkled. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

{{{

I fear, and also am excited to say, a Insinrection may be upon us. A sinvolution? Idk, neither of those quite work, but, all to say: What do you mean Jannik has a week before his ban is up, and all of a sudden he launches a girlfriend and a foundation for children. I mean those are the two greatest achievements any one man could ever have, I assume—beside being tennis number one, which… So yeah, be afraid. I am, and the ATP player should be and also I am so excited. Well not so much about the gf part but whatever.

Also, had a moment, because his new girlfriend allegedly went to the same uni as me, and I found that she follows my college landlord’s kid. Which feels like the most random connection ever, but like the fact that there’s any connection at all is just crazy to me. She prob was in the same year as them or something normal anyways, but my moment was me being like: Damn, we really can all be just a few degrees of separation from any given person. Crazy. 

Okay, also, back to the plot. Literally. This is technically the final part of In Sync. But I plan to expand on this specific pairing’s evolution in the future, I’ll put out more about that later. I really like this particular reader and you can prob tell by the way I lowkey write more about her herself than her with Jannik, whoops, and I’ve had a lot of you express the same. So, yes, I left it off on like an almost—mostly because only a week has technically passed since they met and that felt the most natural and right—but don’t fret, there will be more.

Does anyone read these post-fic notes? I can’t say for sure, but I do know I kinda go haywire in these so… And this one is especially long... it's been a while, okay Formatted with a new "bracketing" }}} --- {{{ system bc I was rereading a fic of mine and was like, wow I kind of bait readers into thinking there's more to the story but actually it's just a dump of my bullshit. So, I'm sorry if relevant info or story gets lost amidst all my other riveting? thoughts.

Anyways, here you are, the long-awaited part 3. Thanks for your endless patience!!!! xx

**Maybe some people can rely on Tumblr’s queue thing, but I simply am not the one. Prob def user error, but still. If you couldn’t already tell, this here is an addition I’m making after coming on here to see that my scheduled post did not in fact post. So sorry, because it was later than I said. Like for each time I said it, too there was many, hope you enjoyed though!!

alexandra eala making herstory for the phillipines!

STOPPPPPPP THIS IS SENDING ME

we're dying and he's aura farming i hate his ass

PLEASE I STILL HAVE HOPE this is fucking hell

I do, however, have a sinking feeling Carlos is gonna win this match 😿

gorgeousss